


Second Chances

by thepoette



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic Dean, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherly Love, Canon Divergence - 8x17, Canon Divergence - Goodbye Stranger, Christmas, De-Aged Castiel, Domestic, Domestic Dean Winchester, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Family, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Gen, Good Brother Sam Winchester, Hurt Castiel, Kid Castiel, Mild Gore, Older Brother Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Team Free Will, deaged, post 8.17, season 8 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepoette/pseuds/thepoette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Season 8 canon-divergence 8x17 Goodbye Stranger.  The gates of Heaven and Hell have been closed, but it comes at a price.  Dean’s trying to do the best he can, but Cas has more bad days than good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: mental instability, amnesia, slight PTSD depicted in...

Chapter 1  
  
  
 _They have stolen faces; their eyes brim over with flakes of light, skin pulled taut.  They make poor masks for waves of sound and energy.  They sizzle out all that’s human; these forces, but he doesn’t know them by name._  
  
 _Only that they are once Brothers and Sisters._  
  
 _They rage out with light and burn with accountability.  He can’t answer the volley, a shockwave of fear and anger.  He is already frayed by so much—what Heaven has done to make him obey, what Naomi poked and scraped raw and seared inside him—all he does is withstand what they tear out of him, as they ride into what’s already a patchwork of fractures and easily rip him to uncountable pieces._

_No thought occurs to him, but to take it and resist the urge to flee._

_They’ve shattered him to fragments, but he finds strength to pull from when he falters.  With blood and pain, he buys time for two brothers and a prophet.  And when the door closes, it separates all that they are from him.  They only pause in shock when Paradise is withdrawn and torn from all their grasps.  And there is so little of him left._

_They turn and flee before the way is closed completely, slipping under the cracks of the gates of Heaven like cockroaches, and they leave him in the dust._

_In the back of his mind he might scream out.  If he has voice to strain at all, it falls to one note.  One name._

_“D-Dean!!  DEAN!!!”_

The light goes on.  He shudders and burrows into the cushion and pillows.  The light hurts his mind, makes him ache and pain in phantom ways.  Someone holds him by the shoulders, large hands that steer him back to sanity.  Some part of him knows they have always done this.

“Cas,” the man sinks in to his side and shields his body with warmth.  He answers each scream with reassurance.   “Come on, buddy,” the man calls against his spine, and draws him back, away from the aching pieces of himself he sees in his inner eye.

 

Cas doesn’t speak anything.  He remains tucked away, trying to gather air, the scattered makeup of his thoughts.  He feels himself corroding, even as he grapples with awareness.  The man waits him out, patting his shoulders gently.  It’s grounding.  The touch, the cradling.  He pulls away from strength and warmth and tries on his own.

“D-Dean,” his voice is diluted, small.  It stutters out like a dying flame in the half-lit walls of his bedroom.  Yes, this strange space is his, though he recognizes nothing: the lamp at his bedside, the small teetering table that holds a glass half-empty, the walls are stark, but there is a desk at the far right near the window and that is covered with books and stacks of paper.  The things themselves are unfamiliar, but the arrangement is his.  He can recognize the pattern of his energy in these man-made, disparate elements.  He has tried to explain this to Dean before, but the man is only… _human_.

What does that make him?

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is a low whisper.  “It’s ok.”  He has left his hand on Cas’ arm, and Cas pushes all of his focus on the press of his fingertips, even as his mind wants to cloud over and convince him that it’s been severed from his body along with the rest of him.   There are daggers in his veins and he’s shattered across the firmament.

“No,” Cas returns and shakes his head bleakly, “it’s not.”  There are thoughts still swimming in his head, sharp and irregular.  Broken memories that shift and crack against each other and piece themselves at random.  They ache.  It aches all over.  If he closes his eyes the faces of the dead poke under his eyelids, make his skin burn, and his throat close on knives.  He feels confined, too small.  The outer shell that surrounds him is suddenly too small.

He tears at his bedclothes.  He’s choking, strapped down.  Trapped.  He goes for the skin of his arms, feeling both empty and full.

“ _Hey hey—_ enough of that, Cas!” Dean’s hands are large over his, grasping his fingers and weighing them down in meaty fists onto the cushion.

“You’re ok, Cas,” Dean says, but it sounds more like a plea. “I promise…just don’t do that anymore.”

There are red welts now along his wrists, along his forearms.  They cover older scabs, rubbing up his sleeves.  He doesn’t know where he got them.

“They’re dead.  They’re all d-dead,” Cas insists as he gives a half-hearted struggle and finally submits.  “I-I’ve done something terrible, Dean.”

“I know, buddy,” there’s a heaviness to his tone, but it doesn’t condemn or absolve him.  It just acknowledges all that he is.

“I-  _did_  something to them.  I think I...” he goes no further on the dark thought that seeds along his memory.   “Father  _forgive_  me.”

He’s filled to the brim, so it pours.  It pours warm and wet from his face.  It blurs the silent nighttime world to something soft and manageable.  He doesn’t ask for comfort, but Dean’s arms circle easy over him.  He sinks so far and deep, buried away from grief and regrets that are too wide and full to handle.  He is small, too small so it starts to slip from his fingers.

“What did I do, Dean?” he asks shakily.

“Shh,” his friend soothes, but doesn’t let him cling too long.  He moves away at the right time.  The light slips into the space between their faces, makes Dean’s form seem so large.  It must be a trick of light.  There are lines along his eyes that Cas doesn’t remember.  His hands are heavy set and rough, and there are dents and ridges that he wasn’t there to witness made.  Cas looks long and hard at him, but his eyes only go surface deep.  They can’t follow the paths to read souls anymore.  He’s half-blind, aching to see Dean as he has always seen him.

  
Still, he can tell that something’s different.

  
“You’ve aged,” Cas remarks in that blunted way that he can’t help.

At that, Dean laughs bittersweet and thoughtful as he stares down at Cas.  The sadness lingers on his face longer than the smile, but that has always been the case with Dean.

“You’ve changed too, buddy,” he reaches out and grasps Cas’ much smaller hand in his.  There’s a tenderness and affection in his gestures that has never come so easily to him before.  He radiates warmth as his thicker fingers rub circles along Cas’ smaller fingers.  Calm seeps into his hand from where they are grasped together.  The loneliness is subdued, the fear tramped down.  Dean has always done this; given him family and solidarity, where he once thought he stood alone.

Nothing seems right, but he’ll follow Dean’s mood, trusting it more than his fear and guilt.  How much grief would’ve been saved if he’d only done this from the start?

“This vessel has always been too small,” Cas remarks offhandedly.  Still, that little grain of doubt chafes away inside him demanding that he should be more aware.  Something’s changed.   _You’re missing something_ , it says.

But if Dean is at ease, why shouldn’t he share it?

“Yeah, yeah, Chrysler building,” Dean smirks and rolls his eyes, but there’s nothing disparaging about it.  Again his gaze goes heavy as he regards Cas.  His voice is rough as he squeezes Cas’ hand in comfort.  “Guess it’s not a vessel anymore, buddy.”

Cas has noticed this.  In the way his eyes have stared at nothing but objects.  There are no more particles shifting in the air, only echoes of the things he used to know but can barely hear.  He is human, at last, or as human as he can be.

“It hasn’t been for a long time, Dean.”

And this is true too.

Dean nods more to himself, reconciling some quiet discussion going on in his head.  His mind is now silent to Cas.  And though, he mourns its loss, he has also noticed the peace that seems to have settled into Dean’s bones.  The man moves, and not because the world might crumble under him.  Dean doesn’t just survive in the space he occupies, in alcohol or the bitterness that drives him on with anger and vengeance.  He lives, as Cas has wanted him to.

The happiness of this thought makes him suddenly light.  Again, his mind is slipping, and he holds onto the tethers of misery just because he fears the unknown more.

“I don’t understand anything,” Cas says the only thing that comes to mind, out of the clutter and jumble of half-remembered things.

“It’s ok, buddy.”

  
“You keep saying that,” annoyance makes him shrug from Dean’s grasp.

“I know,” the man doesn’t lose his patience as his fingers tap along the comforter, near Cas’ fingers.  “But do you trust me?”

  
“Always,” he answers reproachfully.  Dean should know this by now.

“It’s going to be ok, Cas,” Dean starts out slowly, carefully,  “or as ok as it ever gets with us,” he amends.  “But that’s fine, alright?  You don’t have to worry ‘cause I’m here and Sam’s here.  And we’ve got you…and even when things were going bad for us, that’s all we ever needed to kick its ass, right?”

  
This is also true, and the only times it ever failed was when he denied it.  Is that what happened, then?

  
“I’ve done something, Dean.  I know I have,” he can’t leave it alone.  It simmers beneath his awareness this painful thing that bubbles and seethes like it’s fresh and open.   “Th-They’re hurt.  They’re angry at what I’ve done.  I-I need to pay, but I can’t be forgiven.  I can’  _ever_  e forgiven, do you understand?”

He looks to nothing, just the comforter on his lap.  Trapped.  He dives inward, prods at the wound that’s there in place of his grace.  A ring of holy fire, heartbroken faces stare out at him from the flames.   _You should have come to us for help._

“I—I did something to Sam, didn’t I?”

“You think I’m still pissed at you for that?”  Though Dean doesn’t raise his voice, Cas flinches anyway.  “Hey, Cas?  Look at me, buddy.”

It’s gentle, the fingers at his cheek trailing until a palm fits warm along his face.  He feels so small.  Dean doesn’t force him to meet his gaze, despite his greater strength now.  He waits for Cas and supports him when the time comes.

And there he is, eyes bright despite the muted glow of the lamp; the same man he has followed all these years, despite his indoctrination, despite Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory.  Everything.

“Believe me, you’ve done nothing that hasn’t already been forgiven,” Dean doesn’t treat redemption lightly, not his or anyone else’s.  “And you’ve never done anything so bad that  _I_  can’t forgive you.  I know you, better than anyone."

Dean won’t lie about that, Cas knows that too, better than anyone.

He nods into the hand holding his face, into the lines of his palm, the lifeline that connects them.  He yawns; his body unclenching that turbulent thing that writhes always inside him, surrounded by humanity now scarring over the wound where his Grace once lived.

“Whoa,” there’s a smirk in the warmth of Dean’s voice, “Guess it’s past bedtime huh, kiddo?”

Cas’ mind is so muddied now, all the dark put away inside him like a sealed box, and it’ll open and rage out again, of that he’s sure, but for now, he follows Dean and nods again with the weight of heavy eyes.  Still, that stubborn streak that defines him and kept him living for so long can’t help but voice his concerns.

“I don’t…remember,” he admits softly, his voice light now that he takes the time to hear himself.

“I know, buddy,” Dean helps him slide further into the cushions, his hands familiar in Cas’ half asleep awareness.  “That happens a lot.”

Cas rests his head on the pillows, feels Dean’s larger hand cupping his face as he follows him down.  The man hovers over him, like a great warm blanket, and kisses his forehead.  It’s strange to be handled this way, and Cas is weary enough to find it pleasant.

“ _It’s all slipping away,_ ” he whispers as the man stands and takes all his warmth with him.

“Let it,” He pushes the covers up to Cas chest, the way he knows won’t fall away if he moves at night, and strokes his face.  “I’ll be here if it does.”

The lamp is the last thing that goes out, and shrouds the space of his bedroom until his thoughts grow unfamiliar.  His eyes close and there’s nothing to bother him behind them, his mind a clean blank slate.

He jerks awake when he hears careful footsteps.  There’s a shadow at the door, always familiar.

“ _D-d-d…”_  e rubs his face tiredly and stirs from his bedclothes barely awake.  A name stutters on his tongue, before it settles itself back into the recesses.  There’s a fog in his brain that he doesn’t understand so he calls out like he always has.

“ _D-dad?”_

“It’s nothing, buddy,” his father calls out to him in the dark, “you just had a nightmare.  Go back to sleep.”

So he does, turning his back as his father closes the door.  With eyes half-lid he stares at his familiar bedroom: the lamp he picked out with it’s dark blue base, the table at his bedside with it’s cup half-full, the naked walls that he plans to cover with the drawings he made.  They are scattered on his desk, half ideas that he intends to realize tomorrow.

With these thoughts he goes to sleep.

_There isn’t much left.  Inias stands with the tattered thing writhing between his arms, and a hollow look in his eyes.  It’s no more man than it had been angel._

 

“How’s he doing?”

Dean crosses the threshold closing the door quietly behind him.  Sam is already up and waiting for him in the hall.

“Just one of those nights,” Dean’s comfortable enough to raise his voice a little as he moves away from the door.  The walls are sturdy and thick enough, sound and safety aren’t an issue—he should know, he practically built them himself.

Sam shadows him down stairs.  Like practiced guards, they go through their routine nightshift.  A couple of minutes and the coffee’s brewing as they sit at a thrift store table in the kitchen.

The place is coming along nicely.  From the bare bones of Bobby’s torched home, they’ve got a nice two-story.  It’s familiar enough to keep them settled down, and different enough that they don’t get pangs remembering what they’ve lost to get here.

“He remember anything more?” Sam is always making a note of that, Dean’s glad his brother’s around to think for him when he doesn’t have the energy.

“Pieces,” Dean lets the warmth of the coffee slide down his throat, “it’s always the bad pieces.”  He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting the memories of the past six years surface.

_“You fix him!” He yells at Inias’ devastated face.  “You fix him now!”_

_Dean rails at the angel when he returns, because he was in on Cas’ plan.  Inias tells him that he’d salvaged all he could.  He looks at the thing writhing and screaming in his arms._

_And if Dean had known that stupid Cas was going to use himself as bait, he would’ve pinned his wings down and trapped him in holy fire.  He’s been too eager to play the martyr these days.  Sam half-jokes he’s developed a complex more severe than Dean’s.  It happens too many damn times for it to be a joke, whatever Sam says.  He should’ve known…_

_Sam holds him back, even as his hands are is slick with blood because they had to fight their way to the focal point.  They are near the Earth’s equator, zapped in by angel-airways.  They stand on holy ground, what was once the location of the Garden on Earth.  Dean couldn’t really say what country they’re in, other than the thick humidity of the air has him gasping._

_He barely glances at the thing in the angel’s arms, because that can’t be…It can’t be Cas._

_His vessel is practically destroyed, molecules sublimating in an effort to keep itself together.  His grace is in equal condition.  A fusion of high-pitched frequencies, and ruptured blood cells and flesh, the noises he makes are horrifying and desperate.  He stares at them from one bloody eye, the other along with most of his face is blown apart._

_He’s eviscerated—and God help them—aware._

_“Do something!”  Dean begs or threatens.  Desperation has ignited his veins; that same eroding desperation that dragged him to a crossroad and told him his soul was worth making the pain of it go away._

_“I have,” Inias’ fingers tremble as he holds what’s left of his brother, “he won’t heal more than this.”_

_There’s an angel blade already in Dean’s hand, Naomi’s blood still drying along its length.  He’s thinking of it, thinking of making the blade wet again.  It’ll be quick and Cas will pop back in like he always does.  His hand shakes so bad as he grips the hilt, but it’s too heavy to lift against Cas even to help him._

_Sam only has to look at him to know where his thoughts are running.  His hands are already latched onto Dean’s arms hard enough to bruise.  He lets go enough to slide his hand over Dean’s and takes the burden from him with three words._

_“I’ll do it,” Sam looks at his older brother with surety and regret.  “I’ll do it, Dean.”_

_Even as Dean’s fingers go slack with relief, the fear clogs his throat._

_What if he doesn’t come back?  Will he go to Purgatory?  Worse, will he be stuck in Heaven where they hate him, where it might as well be Hell they’re sending him to?  This always comes with a price.  Cas came back to them reprogrammed on kill setting.  Could he come back worse off?  Or not at all?_

_Dean can only hear Cas screaming, a mix of angel voice not strong enough to make his ears bleed, and human vocal chords choking on blood.  Dean thinks to himself, anything is better than this._

_Sam raises his arm, the knife is blinding in his hand; the light of it is cold and hard, the thing meant to kill angels.  This is what he does to the fragments left of Cas.  Dean’s brother cries out because Cas is family, and because they must be cursed in who chooses to follow them.  They must be damned._

_“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” Sam breaks down even as his hand goes bloodless and tight around the blade.  “I’m so…sorry, Cas…”_

_Because this is his family, Dean wraps his own hand around Sam’s and they bring it down together._  
  
Dean’s mind refuses to picture further than that, or it can’t.  The light still sparks up behind his eyes even after all these years, blistering even in his memories.  He can still feel the haze of energy wrapping him up in the air.

 _Something cracks loose under his ribs, and fires out through his arm.  It’s that arm.  The same arm that’s holding the angel-killing blade along with his brother, the same arm where he was gripped tight and pulled out of Hell, the same arm that used to bear a scar_.

_It’s not until that moment, he remembers his escape from the rack; cocooned in a hurricane much the same as then.  But last time, he felt himself rising from the depths of Hell, his painful rise to life so excruciating he’d apparently blocked it out.  He can only recall it now because the agony of it is the same.  But instead of rising, of being absolved of sin and remade, he feels like he could sink and wither down to nothing._

_This is probably what Jimmy Novak meant about being chained to a comet.  But the words are ill fitting.  He’s helped detonate this supernova.  He’s killed a star, let it touch him and get tainted by his weakness and frailty.  The comeuppance is a price too high to bear.  They scream in tandem, him, his brother and the friend they’ve plunged the blade into._

_They scream and pay in full._

 

  
Dean pours another cup of coffee, misses the whiskey he would’ve spiked it with five years ago when that’s all he could do to guard against those nights.  He knows better now, knows that he’s worth more sober and aware because there’s someone counting on him.

Sam has stayed more times than he’s gone off in the past six years.  It’s his home as much as Dean’s or Cas’.  Bobby has left the charred carcass of Singer Salvage, and the property that surrounds it, to him and Dean both when he died.

Dean has needed him in this.  In the house, in his life helping because beginning again is harder sometimes than ending.  He looks out the little circle of light from the hanging bulb they’re sitting under.  It’s quiet in South Dakota, the sun’s a few hours away, but probably won’t get any brighter than the morning light filtering in from the windows.  It’s winter, after all.

The fireplace in the den is made from the ruble.  Dean worked the grout and arranged the stones himself.   He’ll get the fire going in a few minutes, but he takes the time to appreciate the quiet because sometimes it doesn’t last long.

He looks to Sam, to the stupid hair always in his face when he’s emo-thinking again.  Dean only has to look at him to know what’s swimming up his brain.  He’s thinking of Amelia…again.  They’ve taken it very slow since she left her husband three years back, and realized that Sam was always going to be hers.

It’s been hard for Sam, dividing his heart between her and South Dakota.  But Dean has needed him here.  And Cas has too, and Sam would do about anything for Cas.  Can’t separate those two nowadays, because Sam’s so grateful his hand isn’t covered in Cas’ blood.

  
_It’s here in the after silence._

_As the light made from Cas’ final death fades away, Inias grasps the thing that’s left behind before a reaper can take it away from them._

_It’s a soul, Inias whispers with awe because it should be impossible.  Angel’s don’t have souls, except it’s not quite human or angel_

_It’s just Cas._

_It’s here Dean finally understands, that little shard that was tucked away inside him since he dug himself out of a pine box all those years ago.  It’s small and torn because unlike human souls which can’t be broken, Cas’ has been ripped down to several basic components.  He’s always been made of different stuff than his brothers._

_Profound bond, right?  Why didn’t you tell me, Cas?_

_Dean can imagine Cas’ voice, gravel worn and repentant; “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”_

_Severed from Heaven, Inias isn’t strong enough to make Cas what he was.  What the Garrison did, doesn’t allow for it anyway._

_The small spark of light doesn’t flash like the souls Dean has seen outside of bodies.  It’s wounded in Inias’ hands, frail like it could go out any minute.  Cas’ brother holds to him, helps the light build and grow._

 

  
The sun is rising, finally.  The fire is making the house warm enough for Cas to wake up to, Dean’s made sure.  He goes to the pantry, gets the flour while Sam warms the skillet over the stovetop.  Dean’s thinking pancakes.   Sweet tooth must run in the family, cause Cas loves drowning them in syrup.

Dean can already hear him upstairs.  He’s an early riser, would be the first up if Dean and Sam hadn’t beaten him to the punch.  They can hear him padding to the bathroom, the plumbing groans throughout the house.  Dean smiles to himself as he whisks.  There are light footsteps in the den.  They stop for a moment before heading for the kitchen.

Dean braces himself before he turns, preparing for whatever scenario’s going to meet him.  Cas has always been volatile, Dean knows better than anyone.  Whatever iteration his friend has made for himself—confidante, betrayer, martyr, God—Dean is practiced enough in Cas to know how to meet it out.  This is what he does now, and he’s gotten better in the last six years, since he’s had a hand in guiding Cas.  Along with Sam, there’s no one in creation that can read him as well as his family.

  
“Hey kiddo!” Sam’s never as careful as he should be.  As soon as Cas clears the threshold, he’s up in Sam’s large arms, socked feet dangling near Sam’s waistline.  He fits tiny pressed up against Sam, little hands digging into his brother’s shoulders as Sam sways side to side.

  
Over Cas’ shoulder, Sam can see his brother fretting; Dean’s biting his tongue on the warnings he wants to dish out.   _Not too fast, Sam.  You’re gonna give him whiplash.  You’re gonna drop him_ mother hen getting worked up—he’s worse now than when Sam was little.  It’s understandable.  Cas is so easily triggered.  It’s more than that, though.

Sam is Dean’s brother.  Cas is…Cas.

Sam’s arms tighten around the weight of warm soft flesh.  It’s hard to let Cas go, and Dean can see Sam’s face, grateful, and pinched as his chin is tucked over the top of a dark little head.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas’ small serious voice is muffled at the base of Sam’s throat.  Sam chuckles.

Cas doesn’t call hi  _Uncl_ Sam.  It’s always just… _Sam_.  He says it with a smile in his pronunciation, with complete adoration; the kind of affection that comes with always wanting to be in Sam’s company  _alway_ following him around.  For all his existence, Cas has only ever had brothers.  And Sam is everything he’s always wanted in his brothers.

  
Sam finally lets him down, planting him softly on the tiles because for all Sam gets carried away, he’s a great older brother.  Dean gives himself a pat on the back for that, as he puts the spatula aside to appreciate his family.

Dean crosses his arms, leaning against the counter as he keeps an ear out for the sizzle of the skillet once it hits the right temperature.  He looks down at Cas, sees his whole world focused and clear.  It used to frighten him, the force of the feeling that just upsurges when he looks at Cas now.  Blue eyes meet his, wonderfully clear of the confusion and guilt that rises from time to time.  Bright instead of dark.

  
“Hello, Dad,” says Cas, little face earnest and severe for six years old.

_A cry pierces them in the midday humidity near the Earth’s equator.  It’s not the same kind of cry as last.  It’s small and wailing but caries much of the same misery.  It doesn’t stop as Inias holds it uncertainly in his arms, naked and frail and newborn._

  
_He says there isn’t much he could have done, but this._

_He says Cas is wounded inside, with the small tattered soul he carries this is the only thing his vessel can do to house him.  He can’t speak.  Can’t walk.  There’s no telling what he is feeling, what he is thinking…if he can do either.  He cries and cries._

_So much._

_Dean fears so much.  Is he in pain?  All the warnings he’s received about stuffing tattered things into vessels flash and sear through Dean’s brain.  How can this be better?  How can they condemn Cas to this, stuck inside a tiny meatsuit while his soul suffers._

  
_“What did you do?!!”_

_Dean steps over the cooling corpses of Naomi and Crowely’s vessels; the heads of Heaven and Hell respectively.  Their armies are off retreating under the cracks of closing doors, hoping not to get left behind, or defecting like Inias._

_Dean savored the surprise on their faces when they were summoned against their will.  That’s the perk of being in the Garden.  It’s a strong conduit, at least with the right mumbo jumbo.  But as of now, he would bring them both back to life just to have something to tear into.  But the ritual already did its job.  Heaven’s head bitch and the King of Hell are the doors.  And Dean shut them both up but good._

_There’s no satisfaction in that anymore._

_Dean grabs Inias by his ridiculous suit.  The angel flinches, eyes full and wide of fear, even as he turns inward to protect his brother.  He scares easy ever since Cas rescued him from Heaven.  Cas has never told them what Naomi did or how he was able to shake her off, only that he saved his brother from a similar fate.  Since then, Inias has followed Cas anywhere._

_There’s no remorse in Dean, as he yells into the angel’s space, mindless with rage._

_Sam is too devastated to pull him back.  He looks sick, his skin gray and flat of healthy color.  Sam would know just the tip of what Cas might be going through._

_“The o-only thing th-th-that could be done,” for all his shaking and stuttering, Inias says this with complete certainty._

_“A child, Dean,” Inias holds the baby in arms with more care, learning his wriggling movements.  He doesn’t drop his brother.  “the soul of a child can heal…grow.  Given time, he might have a life—not one similar to the life before, but he might have a second chance.”_

_Dean lets go, heart and mind racing with the implications._

_It’s hard to think while Cas screams and screams.  Dean is familiar enough with the basics, knew every one of Sam’s cries.  But the sentiment of this is unfamiliar.  Not hunger, or discomfort.  It’s worse.  So much misery contained in such small thing.  But it’s Cas, who’s family as much as Sam.  And it’s almost instinctual the way he thrusts out his arms and takes his friend’s small body from Inias._

_He needs to see for himself, as much as Inias has been in their corner so far, outside of Sam and Cas there’s no one he truly trusts.  He searches for wounds, bruises, anything.  But there’s only the small, warm weight, molding into his hands.  There’s nothing on the little curves of flesh he supports, little arms, little legs making jerky movements.  Scrunched little face screaming away in surly rage.  Unsatisfied, Dean counts fingers and toes._

_Relieved for he most part, he holds Cas to his chest gently, trying to put as much of his small ear to the space above Dean’s heart; Sammy used to go to sleep on Dean’s chest on those nights where nothing would get him quiet.  He covers as much of that naked soft skin from the sun._

_Sam takes off his light over shirt, and always in perfect sync, they work to swaddle their screaming little friend in it like they’d been doing it for years._

_Once settled back in his arms, Cas just keeps screaming and it makes Dean’s heart sink down as if there’s nothing to the world but gravity._

_It’s Sam, brilliant former Stanford-man, who suggests it._

_“Talk to him, Dean.”_

_Of course.  It’s just Cas in his arms.  Probably scared and confused.  Probably crazy or in pain.  Probably never going to get any better than this.  But this is their second chance, so Dean doesn’t voice his fears.  He talks from his heart, to the only other being on Earth who is family._

_“Hey, Cas,” Dean starts and stops enough to swallow the desperate thing latched at his throat, swallowing his hope down with burning terror because—what if?  What if Cas can’t understand?  What if he’s just started to scream for the rest of his life?  What if?_

_Second chances, he thinks to himself and starts again._

_“Hey, Cas,” Dean’s finally able to swallow the grief down, “it’s me, buddy.  It’s Dean.  I’m here.  Sam’s here.  You’re ok, buddy.”_

_That small red inconsolable face finally relents like it might be listening, so Dean continues.  Nonsense just spills from his lips, every reassurance he’s ever heard his whole life just for his friend…for his family.  There’s not much of it, old Winchester luck kicked that in long ago.  But it might be enough for Cas._

_“That’s right.  It’s me, buddy.  I’ve got you,” he doesn’t remember when he starts swaying side to side and patting little circles against Cas’ small back, “I’ve got you.”_

_It works.  Cas is quiet, so quiet and still, not like normal babies.  But alive and listening.  And comforted._

_“I’ve got you,” Dean says and doesn’t let go or stop._

_Finally eyes as blue as he’d last remembered them, open and zero in on him like they’ve always done.  A startled laugh escapes him as they stare at each other, into each other, like always.  Sam’s laughter follows his with utter relief._

_“That’s right, buddy,” Dean babbles gratefully.  Tears are streaming into Sam’s over shirt as Dean looks down at the baby in his arms.  Sam’s large hand pats him hard on the back as they stand in the middle of a wide, open grass field.  All flatland, nothing larger than a shrub grows here, can’t anymore.  Dean doesn’t know why; he’d sat through Sam’s lectures systematically nodding in agreement where he needed to._

_“I’ve got you, Cas,” Dean says it and goes over all of them like a promise._

 

Dean stands in the kitchen of his home with his family, regarding the six year old staring at him with the same intensity he’d always had.

_Dad._

He could hear that word in a loop for all eternity.  Six years ago, Dean wouldn’t have called himself anyone’s father.  Yet here is his slice of life, and the little boy that tilts his head at him after a while, is the center of his world.

His hair is messy and dark, that hasn’t changed—Cas always suffered from bedhead.    Small fingers peek out from his sleeves.  He stands in his black socks like a small soldier, millennia of watching the Earth like a sentry hasn’t erased the stiffness from his shoulders.

Cas wears his favorite pajamas, gray sweatpants and thermal long-sleeved shirt.  Over these he wears his dark blue robe, because he gets cold easily.  He doesn’t like prints, or those that have cartoon characters, to Dean’s utter disappointment (He’s tried to get him awesome Batman pj’s, it didn’t take).  He prefers solid colors and monochrome in his wardrobe.  He doesn’t wear anything bright or flashy, and it’s hilarious when he refuses to match.

"Isn't  _hello_ a customary greeting?” It’s a running gag between them after Purgatory, in motel rooms hunting down Crowley’s half of the tablet.  Cas’ smile is made soft in the apples of his cheek as he says it, in the light that reflects off his eyes.  He never shows teeth, and his mouth barely moves, but that’s always been the case.

It’s Sam who fidgets first, uncomfortably.  Behind Cas, he shoots a warning look at his brother.  They’ve learned to listen to Cas closely through the years; when phrases get painfully familiar, they’ve learned to be ready.

“Every other day, I’d say yes, kiddo,” Dean ducks down to Cas’ eyelevel, smiles to offset the tension riding off Sam.  “But today is Christmas.  So whatcha say?”

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” Dean can tell Cas is practically fighting the grin off his face.

Sam doesn’t have that depth of maturity.  He beams behind them, like cheerful headlights.

“Merry Christmas, buddy,” Dean presses a kiss against the kid’s temple, smudges some flour on Cas’ face just for good measure.  “Now I heard someone in the den stopping in front of our big ole Christmas tree?”

“That was me,” Cas confesses without a hint of sarcasm.  All these years in their company, and being raised by them hasn’t really put a dent in his ability to commit to poker-face; no telling if he gets the joke in Dean’s voice, or playing a gag of his own at their expense.  Dean loves it.

But then, he loves everything about his kid.

“Why don’t you go count how many you got, huh?” Dean gives him a mock order.

“Ok, Dad.”

 _Yup, definitely could hear that forever._ Cas goes off practically at a run, as Dean stands in front of the stove.  He whisks the pancake mix, stirring up what got settled.

“Yeah, nice save… _Dad,_ ” Sam pats him on the shoulder, only half-kidding as he watches Cas’ retreating form.

The nightmare last night, and now this.  They’ve got to keep wary, but not let the kid get wind of it; the rhythm of Dean’s whisking goes slow and thoughtful.

“Why don’t you—”

“—keep an eye?”  Sam’s always meeting him halfway, Dean’s grateful, “I know,” says Sam ruefully as he follows after Cas.

Plopping down the first spoonful of batter on the skillet, Dean remembers.

_He’s standing in the former Garden where Paradise on Earth once stood.  The shadow his brother casts over his shoulder, and the embrace that Sam follows with after, is a cool weight against his back.  His brother’s hulking form is trying to be light and gentle, aware of the new weight in Dean’s arms._

_Sam looks at Cas like a miracle, big hands hovering and then landing oh so careful.  His fingers are ridiculous against Cas’, who’s so small.  He touches a round cheek, fingers looking rough and weatherworn.  His skin is practically leather beside Cas’ pale pink baby fat, but Sam is careful and his fingers are feather-light.  His voice joins Dean’s and sure enough as Cas turns those baby blues his way, Sam’s face glows with a watery smile._  
  
 _There’s a breeze near the Earth’s Equator, the heat is getting bearable with the setting sun, and their laughter, and the tears of their relief are the only things that occupy the wide spaced field.  Inias stands guard beside their strange little family, a gentle look on his face directed at his small brother._  
  
 _Dean stands with a second chance in his arms, and he’s taking it with all he’s got._

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place post season 8. The gates of Heaven and Hell have been closed, but it comes at a price. Dean’s trying to do the best he can, but Cas has more bad days than good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mental instability, amnesia, slight PTSD depicted in...

“So what did Santa get you, kiddo?” Sam’s voice is playfully teasing.  
  
“You know there’s no Santa Claus, Sam,” Cas hands are delicate and small as he holds a box above his head, measuring its corners by touch then shaking it lightly like any kid guessing at what’s inside, “Not in the tradition you’re implying—there was, however, a Nikolaos who lived in Anatolia in Asia Minor around the fourth century.   A man who secretly gave gifts to the poor, but he never did anything like resurrect the dead...those were embellishments spread by townspeople.  He caught a man faking his own death and… _ratted him out._ ”  Done with juggling the newspaper wrapped box, he moves onto the next.  
  
There’s nothing a school can teach him that he doesn’t already know—and there are a few things he’d correct in the curriculum—not a one equipped to handle his quirks, or keep up with him.  He reads at a level far too advanced for a kid his age, speaks pretty much the same way…in different languages, sometimes, but that’s sporadic.  He’d get A’s in his dissertations, if he ever gave university a chance, but he likes to spend his time  _debunking_ annals of science and history if left alone in the library with a pen too long.  Sam’s had to apologize to his share of librarians and empty his wallet as reparation for what  _they_  thought was ruined property—if they only knew what Cas writes in the margins actually upped the value.  
  
Sam could listen to Cas for hours, or debate him.  Sam teaches him the things not found in books, and loves it when they forget their roles, when they flip-flop being student and teacher.  
  
Sam laughs to himself on the couch  “I love it when you tell that story, Cas.”  
  
“I know,” Cas juggles the smaller rectangular box covered in brown paper from the market, “that’s why I repeat it.”  
  
“I’ve told you about the Anti-Claus, right?” Sam’s dimples are showing as he plays around with the blanket folded over the couch arm.  
  
“I like that one,” Cas continues to the next one, fingers never pausing as he runs it across the more traditionally wrapped present, complete with traffic–light red bow.  
  
“Guess that’s why  _I_  repeat it,” Sam remarks offhandedly but a smirk sits in the corner of his mouth just for Cas.  
  
Cas stops what he’s doing to stare at him.  His eyes are glowing fierce, like Sam could only grow taller in his eyes.  His hands move back to the smaller present wrapped in brown.  He gathers it and moves to sit by Sam in front of the tree and the fireplace.  There’s plenty of room on the couch, but he tucks in next to Sam all the same.  
  
“I want to open this one,” Cas says simply.  He waits for his father in the den, the warm heat of the fire making his cheeks burn pleasantly.  
  
That’s how Dean finds them.  With three plates balancing in his arms, like a pro—because there was a time where he played waiter at a local diner just to get them by one year—he serves them breakfast in the den.  There’s a little worn down coffee table in front of that eyesore of a couch.  He goes back to the kitchen for their coffee—black no sugar for Dean—and tea—Chamomile for Sam, and Cas because he  _has_  to follow everything Sam does.  
  
“So, what did I miss?” Dean plops down, and sandwiches Cas between him and Sam.  
  
“Christmas story,” Sam answers already tucking into his pancakes like a starved man.  
  
“Nikolaos’ isn’t a story of paganism, Sam,” Cas corrects.  He’s already pouring half the bottle of syrup over his pancakes, and activating Dean’s gag reflex as he does so ignorantly.  
  
“I stand corrected,  _munchkin_ ,” Sam smiles at the way Cas’ plate is drenched in syrup.  By the end of breakfast, it’s going to be completely licked clean.  Sam is equally fascinated and grossed out by the way Cas can inhale the stuff.  It also sets him off thinking about archangels-turned-Tricksters and how the guy would’ve spoiled the kid rotten.  It’s bittersweet, but that’s why Sam’s honored by the role placed on him.  
  
“I saw Wizard of Oz last week, Sam,” Cas frowns at his plate, “I’m not  _that_ small.”  
  
There’s something that twinges inside both Winchesters at that thought.  Six years was never so short a time as it is now.  Watching, raising. He’s growing up on them, and it hasn’t been easy—not in the slightest, but that’s far from Cas’ fault.  They can look back now and only feel relief that they’ve passed some hurdles.  
  
Dean and Sam share looks above his head as he takes little nibbles of food.  His fingers are sticky (he doesn’t like using forks or knives, Dean loves it while Sam is exasperated and takes another note on Dean’s bad influence), but he holds the pancake delicately in them; his face is as serious and concentrated as if he’s writing or drawing.  
  
When he starts to lick the plate, that’s when they stop, grinning to themselves while they finish breakfast.  
  
Sam gathers the dishes, doesn’t bother rinsing them as he chucks them in the sink.  He hurries back to the couch.  Fingers now washed in the downstairs bathroom, Cas holds the brown paper wrapped present.  It’s from Sam, and his fingers draw over its rectangular surface with care.  Dean’s brother is at the edge of his seat waiting for him to open it.  
  
Cas does, carefully pulling the twine, and draping it along the lowest branch of the tree. Since it’s their tree, conventional ornaments don’t twinkle between the pine needles.  Their tree is decorated like it has been for the passed four years.  With memories.  
  
The braided yarn wrapped around it is from Cas’ first baby-blanket. When it finally unraveled, Dean couldn’t throw it away.  Pressed flowers are paper clipped along with feathers Cas collected during the Spring.  There’s a bird’s nest that he found when he climbed his first tree at the park and wouldn’t come down until he was sure no birds were coming home.  
  
They’ve collected key chain picture frames over the years, from novelty shops across the country before the house was finished.  They are filled with silly faces and captured moments; a picture of Sam with the hair on one side of his face shorter than the other because Cas cut a lock of it down while he napped on the porch—Dean took the picture and laughed for weeks after.  To this day Sam remarks how his hair grows uneven.  There are so many baby pictures, because Dean went crazy with disposable cameras those first few years and really hasn’t stopped.  
  
 _Look Sam, he’s walking!_  
  
 _You teaching my kid how to blue steel the camera, Sam._  
  
 _Baby’s first slice of pie._  
  
 _They’re called family portraits, Sam._  
  
 _Gotta document his first prank—not my fault you’re easy pray for a three year old._  
  
 _Say cheese, Cas—no not the dairy kind._  
  
 _It’s Halloween, Sam, I said dress him up as Indiana Jones—not Mr. Rogers!_  
  
They’re all there dangling from plastic frames and key rings.  The first night at the house.  Birthdays, because now there’s more to celebrate.  The Thanksgiving Sam cooked dinner, and they ended up with take out.  The tree is filled with every good memory that has filled in the scars of their lives.  It has everything, but one small detail.  
  
There’s no angel on top, for obvious reasons.  
  
The crackle of the paper brings them both back to Cas’ fingers.  He gets to the last fold, the part that reveals the worn leather surface of a book.  Cas looks at the present on his lap for a solid minute.  He does this whenever he receives a gift.  None of the usual yelling that follows most kids Christmas morning.  He’s quiet and still, except for his fingers, which trace along the pattern worked into the leather.  
  
Sam is practically vibrating with energy on his couch cushion, waiting for Cas’ reaction.  
  
“It’s a journal, Cas,” Sam explains in that nervous babbling way of his, as he brushes his hair behind his ears, “you can draw and write in it, figured you needed a neat place to put all your stuff.”  
  
Cas opens it like it’s a holy relic, one of those old dusty tomes they’d salvaged from Bobby’s Panic room (which miraculously remained untouched by the fire).  He touches the blanks pages.  Dean can almost see the thought bubbles rising from his head, already planning what he’s going to fill it with.  
  
“Thank you, Sam,” he whispers reverently.  And when Cas looks up at them, his eyes must be fathoms deep to hold the love and gratitude he bears them.  
  
Even Dean’s a little misty-eyed, as Cas places the book gently on the coffee table, and goes in search of his other gifts.  Sam’s not much better.  He keeps turning his face away and rubbing the corner of his eye against his shoulder, like he could fool Dean.  
  
Cas comes back with the box wrapped in newspaper (because some Winchester traditions die hard).  It’s from Dean, and if Sam was nervous about Cas’ reaction, then Dean is a total wreck.  Cas is as careful unwrapping this present as the last.  The last thing he does is pop open the cardboard top of the box.  
  
Inside, there is a box set of Looney Toons dvd’s (Cas loves the coyote and roadrunner, and says the arguments between Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny remind him of Sam and Dean).  There are his favorite brand of chocolate, and caramels (they don’t let him overindulge except for the holidays where Dean gets to spoil him).  
  
After staring the prerequisite minute, it’s here the little boy in Cas comes out.  He smiles his largest smile of the day, teeth almost peek out this time but that’s only because his lips are stretched wide.  He flips the dvd’s back and forth cover to cover, staring at the colorful characters drawn over.  
  
Dean lets Sam handle the serious presents, while Dean goes for the little pleasures like movies and treats.  It’s an unspoken rule.  They think of it as nurturing both sides of Cas.  
  
Dean can tell Cas wants to pop in a dvd now, his fingers quickly sketching the cover over and over.  He’s excited about his gifts, forgetting to say so much as a thank you to his dad.  And Dean can finally relax back into the couch, happy that he scored a homerun.  
  
“How bout we have a cartoon marathon tonight?” Dean smirks to himself.  Cas gives an animated nod, still distracted as he moves onto the candy.  He lifts them up to his nose, sniffing them quietly.  He drops them on his lap with a satisfied sigh.  Kid’s a sugar addict.  
  
Cas piles all his treasures on the table once he’s done unwrapping his gifts from the Tran’s, Garth, and Jody: an antique chessboard, a socked monkey hat (which Cas stares at longer than the other things—Dean doesn’t know if that means he approves or not), and clothes (because Sheriff Mills once had a child, and she remembers how quickly they go through shirts and pants, or outgrow them).  
  
Dean’s so grateful to Jody, who was the touchstone they needed when they transitioned back to South Dakota.   They’ve  _needed_  Jody.  They hadn’t know how much until the payments came for the house they were building and there had been no one around to watch Cas while they both took jobs to make ends meet.  She’s the only other person they’d trust with Cas.  
  
They’ve needed her since then and years after because since she first met him, she’s loved Cas almost as much as they do.  
  
Dean feels bad sometimes thinking how Jody never had another kid, and as much as Cas has fulfilled that role for her, it’s not the same.  
  
Dean moves to get up from the couch and put all the paper in the recycling bin before Sam can complain how he isn’t being eco-friendly enough.  
  
“Wait,” Cas’ little hand rests on Dean’s knee.  He rushes over to the closet door in the den where their heavy winter jackets go.  Behind all that, he removes two neatly wrapped packages.  He balances them precariously before setting them before Sam and Dean.  “You almost forgot yours.”  
  
Sam’s face turns a bemused expression to his brother.   _Were you in on this?_  He seems to ask with his eyebrows, and Dean shakes a negative.  The paper is the same as the one Jody gave Cas.  
  
“These from Jody?” Dean asks the little boy staring at them expectantly.  
  
“Sheriff Mills helped me wrap them,” Cas shifts on his feet as he stands between them, his energy’s as nervous as theirs had been, hoping his gifts are well received.  “They are from me,” he tells them.  
  
Dean doesn’t want to play interrogator, but he’s starting to get a funny feeling about this surprise, and he’s long since trusted that funny feeling because it usually precedes a dilemma.  
  
“These are awesome, buddy,” Dean’s starts off with the kid gloves, and he knows it’s right when Cas eyes go soft and happy.  “Sam?  Why don’t you open yours first?”  
  
“Oh um…sure,” Shaken from his stupor, Sam follows along with an easy smile and clears his throat as he starts tearing into his rectangular package.  
  
Sam’s fingers get to the cardboard lid and hesitate before they lift it carefully.  Inside is a picture frame, hand-carved wood polished and stained to a rich color.  
  
“Where’d you get this, Cas?”  
  
“Sheriff Mills had a spare in her office,” Cas smiles small and adds self-consciously.  “It’s for your diploma, Sam.”  
  
“But Cas, I haven’t even applied—” As he lifts the frame, an envelope slips out.  It’s addressed to him, and it’s been opened, the seam is tattered paper.  “What’s this?”  He pulls out the letter, unfolds it and reads.  
  
“Sam?” Dean calls out worriedly when his brother’s face goes tight.  Sam cups his chin with his hand, still trying to understand what’s happening.  “What is it?”  
  
“It’s an acceptance letter,” Sam’s trying to swallow down his emotions.  He shakes his head, still in disbelief, and reads once more.  “Cas?” he finally sets the paper down on his lap looks at the little boy in front of them.  
  
“The prophet—”  
  
“—Kevin,” Dean supplies because Cas likes to address Kevin Tran by his official title, perhaps some left over angel quirk.  
  
“—helped me with the application process,” Cas confesses to his feet because he can’t hold his head up when he’s feeling so guilty keeping secrets from them, “but all the information about your academic record hasn’t been falsified, if that’s what you’re worried about, Sam.  You would’ve been accepted regardless.”  
  
Dean is as silent as his brother.  
  
 _Back in the states, they take the Impala to the nicest hotel they can find.  They won’t put Cas in any crumby room.  They stop at a five star with Inias riding behind.  Sam’s acting car seat for the little bundle in his arms._  
  
 _Inias sticks close.  He hides their tracks from straggling demons and angels.  There are a few that remain on Earth.  And there’s bound to be some retribution from the angels because the gates of Heaven have been closed to them.  Essentially they’re stranded, denied of Paradise._  
  
 _And demons…because they’re demons will always come at them._  
  
 _Inias doesn’t move far from his brother’s side.  He has enough juice for the moment to keep them bouncing from hotel to hotel until the coast is clear.  They need some place to stay for a long period of time and regroup.  It’s not safe traveling with a newborn.  The only reason they’ll risk it is because the angel is with them._  
  
 _Inias whammies the front desk, they have reservations for a suite.  The room is the nicest they’ve ever seen, and then they start painting the walls with blood scribbles, angel warding._  
  
 _Cas is the quietest baby in the world, when he’s not screaming.  He only quiets down when either Sam or Dean talk to him.  He cries without purpose.  He’s been fed and changed (an awkward experience for both brothers, since it’s Cas).  It might have something to do with the little he does eat…or the fact that there might be a mess inside his head and they wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it._  
  
 _Sam bites the inside of his cheek, the minute his eyes start to burn.  Now’s not the time to fall apart, when they don’t even know what’s really up with Cas._  
  
 _Alone with Cas for the first time, while Dean and Inias go off in search of diapers and baby formula, Sam coos and babbles and like a miracle Cas goes silent and stares.  Oddly enough, that’s become the only comfort in this situation: the way the angel stare-down hasn’t really gone away_  
  
 _“You’re safe,” Sam tells Cas and strokes his round cheek and forehead, “I’m never going to leave you…Ever,” says Sam and means it with all his heart._  
  
“—I want you to go, Sam,” says Cas, bringing Sam back into the present.  Sam’s no longer staring at the fragile little life held so carefully in his hands.  Small fingers grip at his wrists, touching his pulse points as they beat away madly under skin.  “The school is very near Amelia.  I know that you’ve been thinking of going for a while, and you’ve only stopped because of…me.”  
  
“Oh no, buddy—” It’s Sam’s turn to hold onto Cas again.  “Come here.”  He squeezes those little hands in his palms, draws Cas to him so from where he’s sitting he can meet his eyes.  
  
“I stopped because, that’s just not who I am anymore,” Sam ducks his head, searching for a blue gaze.  “I haven’t thought about school in…years,” Sam chuckles a little at that.  “I can’t just leave, we’ve made a home here.  We’re family, you, me, and Dean.  What made you think I wanted that,  _munchkin_?”  
  
“—I’m not that little, Sam,” Cas deadpans, his voice taking a measure of heaviness with it, different from last time.  Cas shirks from Sam’s arms choosing to stand further apart from the couch, and Sam doesn’t follow him.  
  
Dean sits a cushion down from them, watching quietly.  He’s starting to dread opening the gift in his hands now that the funny little feeling before has matured steadily to the fringe of panic.  
  
Cas stares at the floor.  He looks like he’s working himself up, so as always, Dean prepares to play mediator for his condition, directing his attention like a traffic light.  
  
“Hey, buddy,” Dean calls out, “What?  You don’t want to see me open mine?”  
  
Cas lifts his head at that, something playing around his eyes that might be hopeful.  Dean always finds a way to reach him, even if he gets lost in his head for a bit; Dean always finds a way.  
  
“So is Sam’s present more important than mine or what?” Dean’s teasing, and Cas knows it too.  But it seems to be helping so Dean just goes with it as he tears into the wrapping.  He gets to the cardboard lid, doesn’t stop to pry it loose with a nail.  At first glance, it looks like clothes.  Harmless tissue paper folded over harmless clothes.  
  
It  _looks_ that way, at first.  
  
“Let’s see what we got here?” If a tremor slips its way into Dean’s throat and clots his words, Cas is too hopeful and expectant to notice.  
  
It’s tan, neatly stitched, with tortoise shell colored buttons.  It’s just an overcoat, the kind of overcoat that’s not too heavy.  Durable—and God, he knows how durable.   _Blood, burns, explosions, Leviathan goop._  The kind of overcoat you wear over your best Sunday suit.  The kind of overcoat you wear as you raise people from the dead, act like a dick before you grow a conscience, and then full-on rebel against your peers.  
  
 _That_ kind of overcoat.  
  
“W-Wow…buddy,” Dean falters from the surprise of it so bad, “Wh-Where’d you get this?”  
  
Cas hadn’t worn it that day when Inias had held what was left of his carcass in his arms.  Hell, Jimmy’s black suit hadn’t been more than a few scaps of cloth covering by then, and the blood—God, the blood had made what was left of that nice white button-down all red.  Dean had thought it burned or ripped to shreds by holy wrath like Cas had been.  
  
“I found it a few weeks ago,” Cas explains happily, “Folded in the shed out back that’s been standing there for years.”  
  
Dean’s heart is sinking fast.  
  
“I saw it, and thought you might like it,” Cas face goes pensive and inward.  “You had one.  You kept it before…because it meant so much to you.  I remember that.”  
  
“Cas…?”  
  
“You took it with you because you still had faith.  It was broken—all broken but you still wanted to fix it, Dean,” Cas voice is going frantic, pitching like he’s all jumbled up inside.  He’s breathing hard, and only slows down to stare dead-on at Dean, “But I think I’ve made you sad,” he says with unfathomable questions stirring behind his eyes.  Questions Dean fears to hear out loud.  “I tried to do the right thing, but it always makes you so sad.”  
  
Cas is at the cusp of it.  Dean can still change the direction where his mind is trying to go, where his blue eyes are squinting over the sharp pieces that must flare in his brain.  Dean’s done it before, distracted him from wreckage, swerved him just in time from the crash.  He’s trying to quash the panic rising in him, and Sam stares at him in full-blown alarm.  But they can still smooth this over before Cas gets there.  
  
Dean puts the lid back, hides the coat away and pushes it off to the side as he goes over to Cas.  He kneels down and takes Cas’ shoulder in his hand.  
  
“Not always,” Dean feels the skin beneath his palm start to tremble, so he squeezes tight, holding on as Cas starts to fly apart, “You make me happy, Cas, so very happy—you don’t even know how much.”  
  
“How can I make you happy, after all I’ve done?!” Cas turns away, grabbing his face in his small hands, misery clouding him over in the worst ways.  
  
The lights in the tree pulse and tremble.  
  
There’s something wrong.  
  
Cas is hyperventilating, his shoulders jerking up and down violently, his body unconsciously resorting to a well-used escape of the past, like he could flap away if he tried hard enough.  He digs fingernails at his temples and scratches down, like he’s trying to gouge out the memories that are bleeding into his brain.  
  
Cas has his back turned to them staring at their Christmas tree.  The lights go brighter under his focus, there’s a whine of electricity in the air before one shatters.  
  
 _Pop…Pop…Pop…_  
  
Five more follow before the tree threatens to keel over.  It’s swaying off its base precariously.  Dean reaches out to Cas, as Sam stays in the background quiet shock making his eyes wide, because this— _this_ hasn’t happened in six years.  
  


tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...depicted in a child. kid!Cas fic


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter was emotionally trying to write down, please be aware if any of you are disturbed by the aforementioned situations (I refer to warnings and summary in ch 1) in this work, don’t read. This part is sad and heavy.
> 
> Spoiler: Definitely for episode 8x17 Goodbye Stranger, especially with scene at the beginning of this episode, you’ll know what I’m talking about if you’ve seen it.
> 
> A/N: All mistakes are mine. This is fresh off the press—so sorry for any errors. Let me know so I can correct em.

_The **thing** is a nerve, exposed to the world.  The **thing** is flayed apart, all it’s corners inverted.  The **thing** , still conscious enough and able to reason out words and meanings.  Words like **fire** and **agony** beat fresh hell against what **it** realizes is still a body, still a mind connected.  **It** translates these words in the only way **it** can part out its reality, dividing it between what’s been done to **it** and its reply—_

_**Scream**._

_And if **it** had tears in its obliterated eye duct, **it** would cry._

_“You fix him now!”_

****

_These words dive inside, triggering beyond the physical, shredded meat into a response rooted in self-preservation.  These words translate to **safety** and **Dean** , two concepts that have very little meaning now.  Still, **it** clings to the echoes of **Dean** as if this word had all the power to pull **it** from **agony** or **fire.**_

****

**_Dean_ ** _continues, and spikes up sharp as if the hurt was shared, as if **it** was **Dean** being eaten away, dissolved._

_There are other words, just playing out of reach.  Not as scathing as **Dean**.  They murmur around as if they are drawn by the gravity of **its** pain, into the orbit of **its** death throes.  They argue or deny **Dean** his great anger._

_Anger gives **Dean** color, draws his shape into the weight balancing above **its** nearly sightless eye.  **Dean** is a man now and nothing more, but nothing less than this.  At his shoulder draws another word, almost unheard because of its soft remorse, its ever-carefulness.  **Sam.**_

****

_“I’ll do it,”says **Sam** , his colors gentle and lingering, where **Dean’s** pulses.  As **it** continues to writhe beneath both their bitter faces, **Sam** tells his brother,  “I’ll do it, Dean.”_

_What will **Sam** do?  What will he do that hasn’t been done already?  **It** aches and quivers in arms that call themselves **Inias,** the only word that came to mean something good and worthy._

**_It_ ** _aches and quivers under the radiant sun blasting from **Sam’s** hand, a jagged bright thing that hurts **its** one good eye._

_“I’m sorry, Cas…I’m so sorry,”_ **Sam** _weeps._

_It’s here **it** — **he** understands.  What had been **Cas** cries out in this between space where the tip of the angel blade and the human matter that continues his existence against all mercy hovers, with his demise just inches out of reach.  He cries out as **Dean** stays his brother’s hand with his own, and unites their intentions._

_He cries out. **Yes…please…End it…!**_

****

_His friends, his brothers grant him the gift of death.  He takes it like a starved thing, all greed and desperation.  He takes the blade into his breast, and shatters willingly; the makeup of him scattered to flashing oblivion.  Dusk and morning paints his death, inverts it white to a black center._

_Everything goes opaque, waiting in the breath of nothing._

_And then.  The snap and crack of that long-neglected tether.  Circling from under the ribs of the Righteous Man is the shard of him that never returned when he raised Dean from Perdition._

_Little known fact of angels, even something Castiel himself forgot in the face of his crippling guilt and eagerness to suffer, the death of an angel comes only with the complete destruction of its grace while it occupies a vessel.   While being smote by archangels (twice), swallowed then spat back out by Leviathan, ripped apart by Heaven, that little shard stored safely away in Dean Winchester has never let him stay dead._

_It doesn’t fail him this time, though Castiel has grown ever weary of the price, and this time proves no different._

_What had been a celestial wavelength the size of a skyscraper, is now broken down to the dust of crushed glass, to the bends and fractures of metal foundations.  That tiny shard acts like glue, affixing only to the most vital because the greater parts of Castiel are darting off with speeds breaking the visible barrier.  If Sam and Dean could see in time and expansive wavelengths of color, and follow along with what has happened to their friend, they would go blind with the horror of it._

_Only Cas can see, only Cas, because Inias grips him tighter and shields the three oblong faces of his true form that wear his grief and fragility with his wings, and Cas stares on because he has no more sense or reason not to.  He can only witness and let the glue that tries to catch onto his slithering pieces, make something out of nothing._

_Glue, where cement would’ve been better._

_At the end of it, there’s so much missing, so much._

_Castiel’s story—the beginning, the middle, the end.  These are the sentences started that break off suddenly and try to gather again._

_He stares at the ceiling of a motel, **“You son of a bitch…I believed in…”**_

****

_He’s sure and strong and complete.  Anael looks upon **him** , her Garrison with satisfaction._

****

_He’s holding the light of billions, ignited and yet suspended.  Glorious and damned._

**_“There’s a right and a wrong here, Cas…”_ **

****

_Naomi. Her face, a gentle façade dropping as she cuts a line into his brain and leashes him._

**_“I have no family…”_ **

****

_He’s screaming as Zachariah pulls him from Jimmy Novak’s small form._

**_“What a peculiar thing you are…”_ **

_Dean shouts profanities in his arms as they rise together from the deep._

**_“Maybe this is pointless.  Look…I don’t know if any part of you even cares…”_ **

****

_The green pastures of heaven are buried in ash.  He stands in ultimate judgment of his brothers and sisters.  He stares out serenity at the corpses piled at his feet, thinking on a millisecond of uncertainty that itches infected at the back of his mind—Wrong.  This is wrong._

****

**_“…but um, I still think you’re one of us…”_ **

_He’s screaming, strapped to a chair in a white room._

**_“I need you.”_ **

“ _Castiel_ ,” _Inias gasps in surprise.  His hold on his brother only grows impossibly stronger.  Cas can only hear and feel, as his surroundings pulse in and out of light, staggering on the beat of a revived heart even as everything tries to die down to black again._

_But Inias doesn’t let it._

_The light is Castiel.  All that’s left, and Inias treasures it.  Guards it, as the forces surrounding the equator start to erode his fragile conciousness.  Inias with his tenderness.  Inias, who starts to mold something from the rotted shell of a human corpse, working with molecules that are only compatible with Castiel—any other vessel would destroy him at this point in his weakness._

_Pieces of Jimmy Novak.  The raw meat of him is the only accurate representation of Castiel’s true state.  Inias stitches something from this broken canvas of God’s work, only using material that is salvageable.  The rest is scrap, too damaged.  Like Castiel._

_A patchwork vessel._

_Castiel roils in despair against his brother.  In that half-moment before he’s submerged entirely into this new little box that will bear his essence, he can stare at Inias with his true sight for a final moment.  Inias with his concentrated faces, his four wings—the other two taken by Naomi.  He can see what his brother intends._

_Everything blows out to white—White, too vibrant and quick.  A jarring contradiction to the muted world he’d been a part of before, his mind contracting in fear, no more than a pinprick of awareness against this onslaught._

_He can’t move, the limbs of his vessel—so heavy.  Has he turned into a mountain in that strange blackout that happens from time to time?  Has the body he possesses dug its roots to the center of the earth where the heat and the fire coils?  Because the body is blistering, he’s been poured into a vat, small and superheated and he rails against its sides trying to slide off the edges that have no hope of containing him._

_Small!  It’s too small!_

_He’s screaming, and hasn’t stopped, trapped between broken memories and what occurs now.  He’s screaming, and he doesn’t remember why._

_“Hey, Cas.”_

_Please, make it stop!_

_“Hey Cas…It’s me, buddy.  It’s Dean.  I’m here.  Sam’s here.  You’re ok, buddy.”_

_There’s a gentle rumble cocooning him now.  From the agony.  From the terror.  It grows with a steady start-stop rhythm; Dean’s heartbeat, surrounded by the gentle vibration of his voice._

_He can feel it.  He can feel something other than despair.  Under his cheek, against his ear—realizing for the first time, he possesses these things.  In the wide space of Dean’s chest, he is held against Dean’s heart._

_“That’s right.  It’s me, buddy.  I’ve got you…”_

_And Dean does.  Reality is slowly returning; the present is where Dean and Sam are.   Dean who surrounds him, so large so overlapping.  Where he rests in Dean’s arms.  His shield.  His center._

_“I’ve got you.”_

_Under Dean’s protection, he remembers his vessel.  Remembers it’s face, remembers it has eyes to open.  He cannot move the limbs of this new body with its disjointed equilibrium.  His control slips like liquid through his fingers.  But Dean—Dean is calling him._

_So he strains to open these eyes; with heavy lidded weight, opening ever so slowly like flower petals after a great frost, opening for the first time to spring._

_It must be the first time.  This vessel looks upon an over-bright world, shuddering away from the remembered pain of light.  Something towering moves in to shade his gaze, and he finds no fear in its shadow._

_His eyes are new, but he makes them search.  He struggles to focus the light; the untried lens he looks through is a struggle to control.  And like brushing aside the dust of wreckage, and finding clarity once it settles, there’s Dean._

_Everywhere._

_“That’s right, buddy.”_

_The man’s eyes are filtered clear by the sunlight catching earth warm colors.  The edges of his teeth speak easy words along a gentle smile.  Dean laughs relief above him bathing him with the tears he spills over Cas’ own face._

_“I’ve got you, Cas…”_

“Cas!” Dean wraps both hands around those little shoulders, physically turning Cas around to face him.  “ _Castiel_.”

 

Cas is staring at the floor, but at the sound of his name it’s like gravity working against him not to drive his eyes into Dean.  He can’t go against this ingrained trait. 

 

“What’s happened, Dean?” Castiel’s old eyes are imploring in that visceral way whenever he asks impossible questions.  “What’s _happened_ to me?”

 

“It’s ok, Cas,” Dean tries, goes for something soft in his tone, and he tries to rub away the tension in those small shoulders.  “You’re ok.”

 

“Don’t lie me,” there’s a warrior inlaid into that child’s voice.  There’s no mistaking the threat despite it.  The fire in the hearth starts to crackle ominously.  “I’m not a child.  I-I remember being—being _more…_ ”  He looks down at himself in barely contained alarm.

 

At the tips of his fingers, he finds blood.  The scratches don’t heal.  And if he goes inward, into the places of himself that were profound and fathomless, he finds shallow pools, his consciousness only surface deep because there is no more, only the scar tissue of a landscape that was once a universe to itself.

“I’m gone,” he cries with a child’s voiced earnestness and demand.

 

The fire in the hearth upsurges with his outrage.  It scrapes against the mantle leaving charred scabs over its surface.  And there’s Sam in the background shielding his face away from the heat, but D-Dean only comes closer.

 

“No, you’re not,” the man is kneeling into his space, eyes staring at his level with compassion, he rubs a thumb down over his cheek bursting the drops that have fallen there, “You’re not, because I’ve got you.”

 

D-Dean…his hold is near bruising as he wraps those large arms around Castiel’s smaller shoulders, around his shuddering frame, chest to chest, heartbeats meeting in the middle and stuttering wildly together.

 

D-Dean is shushing into his ear, calming him in the fold.

 

“You’re alright,” his Da— _Dean_ says, like he always has.  Without caution or fear or insecurity, as if by his declarations alone he would make everything all right.  “I’ve got you.”

 

Castiel fists a hand in the man’s shirt, holding on half-believing.  The fire is growing at his neck, maybe inside the fine layer of his skin, sparking on guilt.  His torn down wings are effigies of his guardianship over this man.  He holds onto the Righteous Man, his hands burning on the contact, fingers wrinkling the fabric—

 

**_Kill him._ **

_He fists a hand in the man’s shirt and stabs through his sternum.  The flesh there gives easily enough.  There’s no obstruction in the path of the blade to his heart.  Dean has always made death an easy occupation.  He acts like a magnet, attracting the things that want to kill him._

_And Castiel has always been dangerous to him, never more so, than now.  This is his first success, and it comes too easy, almost child’s play to kill Dea—_

Cas screams.  He beats his hands against Dean’s chest, stuttering on a breath only to scream worse than before.  He shoves at the larger man, raging, chaotic.  He almost breaks free of Dean’s arms.

 

_There’s only grief here and he doesn’t bother to hide his face, cut in odd angles with the emotion.  No time to prove he is anything but a weak wounded thing filled with cries and human displays.  Eyes blurred and searing with the crime dropped dead at his feet, he has a second of coherent thought to drive the bloody blade in his hand through his own heart, to match with Dean._

_Naomi works faster than his grief.  Her fingers snap out, making the room go bright, scattering the hall-bent shadows, bringing light to the horror broken in his arms._

_“Again,” she commands, face devoid of the displeasure her voice surrounds him with. He has a second to wonder before a figure wanders careless in the open hall across from them, dressed in layers like the body in his arms._

_Like a puppet on tethers, she makes his weary legs stand, makes him stalk after his prey.  Makes him…_

 

“ _Please…_ don’t!” his little voice grates itself raw.  “Don’t make me!”

 

In Dean’s arms, his little boy writhes and his fingers are clenched into claws to get away.  He’s screaming like he’s never screamed before, in a way no child could ever scream. 

 

It’s the flavor of old despair; a sound that rakes at the soul that Dean has carried inside his body since his turn in Hell.  Despite the years, the sound brings him back to that place, or somewhere more terrible, because Dean could handle his own grief—even Sam’s—but Cas is his responsibility to a degree that Sam has never been. 

 

For all Dean has practically raised his brother, Sam is his own man—a lesson paved with years of regret and frustration, finally sinking in.  And thank _Go—whoever_ for Sam, who’s already grabbing Cas by his kicking feet as he contorts his small body into impossible angles.  The fire goes higher, forgotten as Sam maneuvers Cas between them.  Despite Sam’s strength, he’s so careful trying to rein Cas in, even getting kicked by a socked foot for all his troubles. 

 

The boy chokes on his own voice, eyes going white and rolling, a scared animalistic thing fighting his caretakers.  The tree finally crashes into the wall behind them, and then it cracks in half at its trunk, split down the middle—an invisible force splintering it unnaturally.

 

The cut of Dean’s jaw is filled with tension; he breaks out in a sweat trying to hold onto this vital piece of his life.  He rests his chin against the top of Cas’ head, biting his own tongue with all the jerky movements going on beneath him.

 

“Cas!” Dean gives a fierce whisper.  “Come on—Stay with me,” a father brackets his son in his trembling arms, with worry.

 

Sam bites back a curse of surprise, leaning just some of his greater weight into Cas’ ankles.  The fire is raging in full fury now, red fork-tongued tapping high enough to skim the low ceiling.  Sam’s pulse is pounding with shock just looking at the war zone their quiet festive den has become.  Cas is doing this—not on purpose—but he has mojo enough to burn the house around their ears, so Sam bites the inside of his cheek and calls out to his brother.

 

“Dean,” Sam finally breaks through the protective circle Dean has drawn around Cas.  His older brother takes a moment frowning up to Sam’s gaze, eyes helpless and torn trying to hold on.  He’s sees the growing fire, eyes going saucer-wide like Sam’s. 

 

Oddly the pyrotechnics stay in one place, just climbing higher like a red streamer smoking up the mantle and wall with ashy fingers.  Dean figures it out, gut instinct still sharp despite the few years of retirement.  He throws a cautious look to Sam, and just like signal lights communicating the traffic of thoughts, it’s understood the fire goes into second priority.

 

It’s Sam, bright, dependable former-Stanford man—Sam who remembers the small syringe and sedative in the downstairs bathroom, just past the open double doors out in the hall.   He takes a second to gain Dean’s attention, and as his brother tightens his grip on the kid, Sam shoots off for the bathroom.

 

He’s knocking aside aspirin bottles, and sunblock, cluttering the floor with plastic things and the empty sounds they make hitting the bathroom tile.  The medicine cabinet is empty before Sam remembers past his panic—the first aid kit is in the lower drawer of the sink.

 

Sam loads the syringe with minimal shaking, accurate with the dosage for Cas’ weight and size.  They’ve never had to use it before, always kept it handy because there have been days bad enough to contemplate using it.  And if John Winchester, and then Bobby Singer, drilled anything more useful into their skulls, it’s to _always_ be prepared.

 

Sam runs carefully back to Dean’s side.  Cas’ is practically seizing in his older brother’s arms.  Even life-hardened, been-to-Hell-and-back Sam hesitates in quick heartbreak at the picture they make.  Because the little boy in Dean’s arms is reparation from the universe for all the crap they’ve suffered, and every chance Sam gets to make him smile is like a balm settling over his lifetime of wounds, Sam searches for a thin vein—despite the flailing arm—inserts the needle, and drives the plunger home with all the stoicism of a registered nurse working the emergency room floor.

 

Because Sam will be _damned_ before he sees his family torn apart…again.

 

As the sedative takes effect, Sam contemplates how he would never survive it.  Looking at Dean now, as his muscles settle back from painful contraction, twitching as Cas goes still if not entirely peaceful, Sam thinks how it would be worse for Dean.

 

The fire goes as soon as Cas is under.  There is some damage to the mantle, wall and ceiling, but only cosmetic.  Repaired easily with sanding and paint.

 

Sam’s brother isn’t so easily put back together.  He recognizes the wild, burning thing glowing in Dean’s eyes, even as he strokes tenderly at Cas’ cheek and shoulder, old well-practiced movements that have only perfected with time.  He gathers Cas to him gently, softly rounded shoulders bearing the weight of a six-year-old—Dean makes the impression of a pillow or a cloud not to disturb Cas’ artificial nap.  He’s being painfully quiet.  A glare over his shoulder commands Sam should follow, that they should continue ignoring the mess in the den.  He can practically hear Dean barking, “Second priority, Sam.”

 

 _Of course_ , Sam follows—as if he needed to be told to feel the anxiety tethering him to Cas—hovering a step behind Dean, with questions growing in his brain like weeds.  _Is he ok, Dean?  Is he alright?  Dean, let me look at him._ Sam chokes them down as Dean leads them in a somber parade march up the stairs to Cas’ room.

 

Sam only sidesteps in front to pull down the comforter and arrange the pillows, disturbing them from their pristine order.  Cas makes his bed to military standard every morning, and Dean returns him to it despite having left it only a few hours before.  

 

Dean shifts his small body comfortably, socks staying on because Cas gets cold, little robe still draped around him.  It’s reminding Sam now of before, of an overcoat and the man who wore it—so painfully different and yet similar to the child he eventually became. 

 

Here they all are, two brothers standing vigil over an occupied bedside.

 

_Team Free Will.  One ex-blood junkie, one drop out with six bucks to his name, and Mr. Comatose over there.  Awesome._

Sam shifts uncomfortable at the thought, like a twinge of pain from some old war wound flaring—which he supposes, it is.  Dean’s mouth is a tight line, a muscle in his neck jumps as he swallows thickly.  Sam doesn’t have to be psychic to know that Dean’s thinking the same thing.

 

Regret always follow the memories of Castiel, of how he was before.

 

How they were poor teachers for the all-experience of the human race.  How they were no better substitutes for Cas’ brothers.  How they took him for granted in some respect.  How they should’ve tried to be more like family, tried to fit it in with the hunting and the apocalypses, the gates, and the tablets.  Should’ve shown him how much he meant…

 

Sam sees the echo of these thoughts in Dean as they wait for the other little corner of their family to wake up.  Making up for lost…well, _everything_.

 

Cas has helped Sam reconcile with most of this.  He has helped Dean too.  But right now, it only seems to create fuel for that fire stoking in his brother.  Dean radiates with the energy of restlessness, or new purpose.

 

Whatever it is, Dean’s eyes go sharp and focused.  He drags the covers over Cas’, straightening them half-heartedly, delaying from pulling his touch completely away from his son.  The last thing he does, is rest one broad calloused hand over a small covered shoulder while the other cups the side of Cas’ face.  He doesn’t stroke his thumb, or display any other affection he typically allows with Cas.  He stays still, leaning for inordinate time, almost like he’s fortifying them both, anchoring them to each other.

 

Dean nods to himself, looking decided.  It’s here, he finally addresses Sam.

 

“Watch him,” dragging from his mouth like it costs him everything, Dean says it like an order or a plea.

 

Sam nods mutely, already plucking a chair to sit bedside in.  He doesn’t acknowledge Dean’s departure, just listens to the barely contained noises he makes heading downstairs.  In the time it takes Dean to be outside, Sam wrestles a small hand from the sheets and covers it with his own.  He hears the open and shut creak of metal the Impala gives as his brother disturbs her rest in the garage.

 

Sam is tall enough, even sitting down as he is, to peek out the lightly frosted window near the bed.  He sees his brother, snow boots trudging in the napping winter dirt, making his way past the bare tree with the tire swing.  The car heap in old Singer salvage yard is now paved brick and a garden.  It’s their garden patch so every herb is used for protection, and charms are buried under plants resting in winter hibernation and the white picket fence is reinforced by white-wash iron and riddled with hidden warding sigils.  Dean walks past this, to the white open field touched with packing snow, where the underground pipes arranged in a devil’s trap don’t reach.   

 

There’s a jug of holy oil in Dean’s hand, probably the last one.  With it, he makes a large circle in the open field.  It’ll burn despite the layer of snow on the ground, just on of those inexplicable phenomena’s that surround their former occupation.  Resting at his hip under the lining of the jeans he’d slapped on, is an angel blade.  Squinting at the white sun once he’s finished, he sets the jar at his feet.  There’s no preamble as he cranes his neck to the sky and starts to shout for all he’s worth, breath fogging out like a tea kettle come to boil.

 

“Inias!” it echoes long and disused among the low snow drifts they’ve had to shovel out the driveway these past few days, and the few spokes of yellow dry grass peeking out of it.  Dean abuses his prayers and shouts it out several times before he goes rough and quiet.  Then, he draws back from the circle, leaning most of his weight on his right leg, he waits.  In his other hand, Sam notices the lighter.  In the post-morning, Dean flicks it on and off, it’s tempo counting down to something.

tbc... 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I'm sorry this chapter has been sitting in my computer for months now.  I've been editing it off and on, but it hasn't seemed right until now.  I hope to be more consistent--new year's resolution!  There's a lot of flashbacks in this one.  Hope it doesn't get too confusing as we go along.

 

Sam draws a line with three fingers over a small worried brow.  His hands are large in size; it’s never more obvious than now as he caresses the dip that’s etched itself almost permanently between Cas’ eyebrows.  He has spent his time smoothing it out, passing over the finer hairs there as if the skin beneath his hand is clay he can shape. 

 

“ _S-s-sorr…I-I’mmm…”_ aspirated whispers slip througha small gap of space between small flushed lips.   Cas squirms further, head tossing beneath Sam’s hand, eyelids flickering but never opening.

 

His fingers run down Cas’ left temple, with its small vein pulsating under skin.  He passes along the little half-moon cuts scattered there and rubs soothingly, wincing for Cas’ who can’t feel a thing, as he lies sedated on the bed.  Here he would dig out the mess working itself underneath.  Gentle, but firm he would smooth over the cracks that are probably weakening the infrastructure.  His index finger draws against an unpronounced cheekbone, buried still in baby fat.  He would erase the tear tracks, making their fresh roadmaps.  The face under his hand is small, and so Sam travels easily to the corner of that small unhappy mouth.  Here he would put a smile.

 

On the nightstand on the other side of the bed, the water glass starts to ring, a slow vibration that hovers at the edge of sound.  It sounds like Sam’s running a finger along the edge of the cup, playing the glass harp.  Of course, his hands are otherwise occupied, and the water in the glass is stirring on nothing, bubbling to the thrum in the air.

 

There’s a broken hush in the room, of invisible molecules disrupted.  Sam can only feel it, wedging itself under his sternum with enough force to counter the beat of his heart.

 

“ _…mmm…s-s-sorr…s-s-sr—y…”_ Every rustle and jerk of motion makes the cup overflow, spilling its ringlets of water into the wood grain of the nightstand.  The light bulb Sam clicked on at dusk spikes on an unseen charge, even his arm hairs raise unconsciously.

 

Against tender flesh, Sam can feel the error of his finger pads, their sandpaper roughness even as he makes his touch light.   He returns his hand to its post, guarding over the small fist clawed into the bed sheets.  Under his palm, Sam can feel the twitch of small fingers, little nails somehow finding their way to his skin. 

 

There’s a damp towel in Sam’s other hand.  He’s made use of the damn water glass, wiping the blood off Cas’ fingers, and the blood on his face, discovering the lines and welts there.  He doesn’t feel better for it.

 

“ _S-s-sor-ry…I’m…s-sorry…”_ a hitch of breath, and another drop flows down Cas’ face making his neckline go wet and sweaty, as he turns his head away from Sam.

 

Every sound digs its way in through the pores of Sam’s body, like spears.  They pierce the vital, and worry the sutures of past hurts.  The kid’s like a scratched record, doomed to repeating the same verse of the same song.

 

Despite how useless it’s proven to be, Sam shushes the words.  Heart and teeth clenching, all his being wanting to crunch in on itself, Sam reaches out and rubs down that ample little cheek lovingly, like he has always done.

 

“It’s ok, Cas,” Sam matches the kid’s voice in volume, and because he has nothing left to say, and despite having no authority to say it, “You’re _forgiven—_ no more, alright, kiddo?  You’re forgiven already.”

 

Sam is compelled to lean over, reining in his body’s size as he balances parallel to that smaller unconscious form as if he could be a barrier between the little boy and the nightmares he can’t wake him from.  His hair curtains both their faces, and he leans them gently together forehead touching forehead.  He presses a kiss, like a protective charm on that little cheek, tasting salt for all his troubles.  And soon, Sam’s face is wet and trailing tears along the same pathways of misery.

 

He stays in that position, willing Cas to come back to them, until his forearms shake into the mattress and all his strength has left him.  And when he falls back into his chair, he knows it’s possible to have his heart broken further—to have it turn over in the dust and mangle of his chest, and pound itself to nothing again and again.

 

_There’s always a new ten._

Hallucination or not, that’s probably the truest thing the devil ever said.

 

Sam isn’t strong—Never has been, probably never will be.  And Dean, when it comes to the ones he loves—poor Dean is somehow worse.

The sounds creaking from the floor below, echoing his brother’s movements in and out of the house for the past few hours, go by like footnotes in Sam’s mind. 

 

Sam doesn’t know what-o-clock it is, or particularly care, save some threadbare worry for his brother’s health as he catches his death outside.  He hasn’t bothered to look out the window since the sun passed what meager light it had over the sky.   And knowing Dean, as well as he does, Sam knows dead sure he’s gone back out there again; shouting at the cold, the ring of holy oil still unlit in a mix of sleet, and the dark.

 

_It won’t stop._

_Dean’s tried to block it out for hours.  It only goes on._

_He blasts the T.V to full volume before a pounding comes from the other side of the living room wall they share with the next apartment.  He pounds right back in response, lowers the T.V and Cas doesn’t stutter or break for breath as Dean shifts him in his arms._

_Cas just cries._

_His little dark head lays in the crook of Dean’s right elbow now.  That round little mouth with its unhappy little lines, produces noise that will make Dean go deaf in his right ear, just to even out the ringing that’s accompanying his left.  So in they go to the single bedroom in the back that looks out to the parking lot of the first floor of their apartment complex, all gated all the time—since that’s the only kind of neighborhood that they can afford right now; the only kind of neighborhood that doesn’t bat an eye or call child services if the crying goes on and on._

_“Come on, Cas,” Dean coaxes as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, leans Cas over his thigh, and resumes the up and down bobbing motion he’s been trying for the past couple hours.  “Do you want us to get kicked outta here like the last place?”_

_It’s their second week in.  They’ve paid a month’s rent already; warded the place so much, they’re going to lose they’re deposit.  Sam’s out looking for a second job, and Dean’s stuck playing housewife.  He’s sleep deprived and he needs something to calm his nerves, take the edge off of Cas’ crying.  They’d been kicked out of the last place because of the noise.  Child services had been called, and if it hadn’t been for a quick escape, that might’ve ended badly._

_There are no walls to share in this room, so Cas can go on screaming as much as he wants.  There’s a towel under the door as an added precaution, but Dean’s considering using it to his benefit.  He wants to add a few noises of his own to this mess._

_“Cas, please,” he tells the bundle in his arms for the hundredth time, “stop it, man.”_

_It’s been a month of this.  The crying.  Cas is an alarm clock, for which they have no control.  His times are preset and unknown, and once he goes off, there’s no accounting the seconds, or hours or anything in between until he stops.  They don’t know or understand his triggers.  There’s no earthly reason for a month-old to be crying as much as he does, or the way that he does._

_Sitting down isn’t working, so Dean stands and bounces his little friend in his arms shushing him.  Cas has built immunity to the sound of their voices, no longer pacified by their presence or words.  He scrunches up his face, eyes little angry slits leaving no room for stare downs, as if he means to block their attempts to get him to focus on them like he did before._

_Dean decides to try pacing for a change, but nothing is working.  He tries talking Cas down like he’s talking a man off a ledge, no longer knowing which of them he’s really addressing.  It’s worse either way, now that the distress and heaving little body is close to his ears and eyes; close enough to see the misery magnified and have no way of soothe it._

_“Come on, Cas,” his voice is getting louder just so he can hear himself above that terrible infinite loop of noise.  He can feel his own eyes burning, the thing crawling in his gut with impotence and pent up rage.   “Stop it, dammnit!!”  It isn’t right, and Dean can’t—he just **can’t.**_

_An angel has put Cas back together, and this is what they’re left with._

_“Shut the hell up!!”  Because of the weight of that small body in Dean’s calloused hands is suddenly tremendous and fear inspiring, he heads to the crib at the corner and dumps Cas in it._

_Just then, Sam comes through the door, his face incensed disapproval.  “What the hell, Dean!?”_

_But Dean doesn’t have the strength to answer.  He sits on the bed in their one bedroom apartment.  He holds his face in his hands, palms cupping his ears just to drown out the noise.  His cheeks feel hot, and his eyes are burning, before long he’s just sobbing right along with Cas._

_“I don’t know what to do, Sam,” he chokes out desperately, the man who has faced down demons, monsters, Armageddon and Death, sits defeated.  His brother goes over to check on Cas, nods to himself when the baby seems physically fine, and sits beside him._

_“He’s crying all the time,” it comes out in a confessional rush, “ I think there’s something wrong with him.” And that’s the thing that’s been stirring in his gut with all the weight of lead.  “ I don’t know if he’s in pain or if there’s something wrong in his head.”_

_“Dean, it’s been a month…”_

_“Exactly,” Dean rises in a fury and rushes over to the small library in their room, just a threadbare wooden shelf they’d fished from the side of the road, “this crap says he should be smiling and laughing, and making little baby noises.”  He throws the books off to the floor.  “Cas doesn’t do any of that—there’s something wrong with him, Sam.”  Dean takes to pacing in the small space between the edge of the bed and the door to the living room.  He’s ringing his hands and working himself up with disastrous possibilities shifting the stones laying into his heart._

_“He needs help, like professional help,” Dean points an aggravated finger at the screaming little life swathed in a knitted baby blanket.  Little fists shaking desperately right back at Dean, Cas keeps crying, and his breaths go a little choked with the amount of screams he’s delivering with the little amount of air he can carry in his lungs.  “We need to take him somewhere.  Somewhere they can look him over and make it stop…or something.”_

_“Dean I know,” Sam gets up to follow him, crowding into what little space they have.  He places a large hand at Dean’s elbow, fingers digging gently.  “I’m worried too, but just take it easy, ok?”_

_It’s the wrong thing to say._

_“Take it easy,” Dean dodges away, “Are you even listening to this? It doesn’t stop—don’t know why!”  He shrugs his shoulders a little hysterically and leans over the side of the crib, shouting right back at the source of the noise.  “Isn’t that right, Cas?  Cause you don’t listen right.  You never listen, when you should.  Didn’t I tell you, Cas?  No more going behind our backs, right?  And what did you do, huh?”  He smacks the rails of the crib with a hand._

_“Hey, now that’s enough, Dean!”  His brother shoots out an arm and with his larger body, walls the crib from him._

_But the deluge is pouring, broken mouthed and open._

_“You got yourself into this mess, right?  Why didn’t you listen to me Cas?  I just needed you to listen.  I didn’t want you to get hurt—didn’t you get that?  I just wanted you to be ok.  Please, just listen for once, and be ok…I need you to be ok.”_

_And that’s it.  The strength he’d gained from anger melts away into collapsing despair.  He’s on his knees at the foot of the crib, vision burning and pouring and it’s painful to look at what’s left of their friend.  He’d never got the chance to mourn; for all that they’d escaped with when the gates of Heaven and Hell closed, their friend as they knew him is gone._

_Sam’s there at his shoulder, like a life-long canopy of friendly shade.  When Dean stares up at his gargantuan little bother, he looks into hope; but that’s just Sam, always more hopeful than he ever should’ve been—than life had ever given him a reason to be.  Dean wonders what Sam sees when he stares at Cas, if he sees a waking memory that he needs to keep mourning, the way Dean does._

_Dean isn’t stupid.  He knows he needs to make peace, somehow._

_Sam stares at him a good long while, before he opens his mouth.  “Dean,” he starts off so gently, it has Dean going full alert.  “Tell me the truth—are you up for this?”  He encompasses their surroundings, and means the facsimile of normalcy they’ve amassed in a short month.  And then, he plants his eyes on Cas, who’s still bubbling with mournful sounds._

_“When we took him with us, we were just flying by the seat of our pants and now that things are settling down, do you think maybe he belongs with—”_

_“—with who, **Sam**?” Dean bristles against the passivity he finds in his brother.  That he would even **suggest**_ **…**

_“I don’t know, like a real family and a real home…” in his ridiculous suit, he crouches next to Dean, tucking his bangs from his face, eyes growing wide and imploring just like when he was little and got anything he wanted out of Dean.  “Cas might get a chance here that you and I never got.  He can grow up normal.  We have to ask ourselves if we can give him that.”_

_It has a second of reality in his mind.  He pictures giving up Cas…and that’s it.  That’s as far as it goes, before he puts it down, because it feels too much like gutting himself._

_“What do you mean **family**?”  His little brother flinches at the tone Dean spits back at him.  “He has family— **we’re** his family.”  This is the only truth.  The only thing that has any kind of weight and stability, and Dean grasps it fast and reinforces it from encircling doubt._

_“I’m just saying we should have his best interest--”_

_“—What’s in his best interest, is to be safe, Sam.”  Dean plows through, now that he has his mission statement, something to keep him going.  “We don’t know if there are things out there gunning for him.  Say we leave him with Mr. and Mrs. Normal and the ugly crap starts coming.”_

_  
“Or he stays with us and we make him a target.”  The look Sam throws him, says he’s done playing nice._

_“So we abandon him…just leave him when he can’t even help himself, when he can’t even **be** himself?  And what if he’s not normal, huh?  He wasn’t even **born** , Sam—not like Anna was.  He’s a fallen angel turned human, and we’ve got no answers.  We’ve got no rules, who’s to say he isn’t better off with us, huh?”_

_And when Sam turns those eyes back to him they say what he won’t bring himself to hear.  But Dean hears it, in perfect surround._

_Look at us, Dean, you think **this** is better off?_

_There’s nothing to counter it.  Sam should’ve been a lawyer._

_Dean’s suddenly struck with their settings: the apartment, the violent world outside ready to greet them.  Is this fair?  The question rises despite Dean’s instinct to strangle it down.  Cas’ crying is steadily becoming a soundtrack to the hopelessness building to the foreground in Dean’s purview.  It’s strange to acknowledge the hope that had ever been there before._

_What have they been thinking dragging a kid around with them?_

_“Look,” Sam’s pitch is off when it reemerges, something apologetic as he hunches into Dean’s space to gaze at his brother like the only steady thing in the world, “maybe you’re right.  It’s only been a month, Dean.  I think we should just wait him out.”_

_Sam would’ve made a terrible lawyer._

_Even Dean has to give a dark chuckle at his new suggestion, despite the fact that his softhearted little brother has bowed out for his sake._

_“What do you mean wait him out?”  Dean’s desperate to play along, clears his throat of a closed off voice made so by desperation and tears._

_“He’s gonna learn to talk eventually, right?”  Sam pats him on the shoulder; “In the meantime, we just keep treating him like Cas.”_

_It’s a plan.  It’s a bad plan, but it’s like the next sure rung on a broken ladder, and Dean holds on for his life._

_Of course, there’s no net.  The fall takes a year to come to a complete stop._

 

The lighter gives a muted clack, open—another for close. 

 

Wait.  _Clack,_ open, _clack_ close.  Wait some more.

 

Dean’s thumb is on autopilot now, ticking seconds off with sound and movement as the horizon grows harder and harder to understand in the distance.  He’s done this perhaps a million times or more throughout the day, ticking down to night and now it’s overtaken completely.

 

The far ends of this barren spot where his feet rest on frosted earth disappear to darkness and nowhere. Dean rests at the epicenter of nowhere.  His circumference is the house resting with a single shining window.

 

Cas’ room, it looks like a hovering box of light because Dean didn’t turn on the floodlights for the front porch, or the sensor for the garage so the edges of his home stand bare-boned in the coming night—no more meat to draw warmth from its faint skeleton.

 

His happiness.

 

Dean’s hands burn cold hanging off the cuffs of his parka.  They are dry and itchy and sore at the knuckles, swelling in the atmosphere they’ve been subjected to all day.  Gloves forgotten in the house, he shivers absently trying to force his nails into his palm.  He ends with a bloodless fist. 

 

Pain is a direction to ride this out.  Pain is looking back on the morning, on a little boy with blue wonderment in his eyes thinking that a fraction of the world’s happiness could somehow belong to them.  Pain is the blunted edge of disappointment poking at his shoulder saying _can’t believe you fell for that_.

 

And Dean can’t—he really _can’t_ believe that he… _believed._

His stomach hollows itself on that thought alone, his body a barrel drum where his heartbeat gives a resounding thud of _so stupid…so stupid…to believe…_ in the gloom of after dusk.  He’s been struck against, again and again his whole life, and now he echoes with curses and threats.  He wants to be full, or at least half-full and hopeful like this morning.  He wants to be full and burning on liquor and curtailed thoughts, living on the edge of fuzziness where nothing runs ragged even if it should and does. 

 

Living like that is like stalling, a stutter-stop motion where he doesn’t remember stopping or why, only that it dulls the pain.  It makes him careless, he remembers, and numb. 

 

He’s five years sober, and tonight he’s so very thirsty.

 

_It’s an itch he can’t scratch._

_Staring at newspaper racks and reading the stories for what they are; the second month is self-induced hell.  Dean knows, giving his money to the cashier as he buys diapers and baby formula, and then dumping the morning paper on top, he’s only succeeding in driving himself mad._

_Old habits don’t die—not Dean’s anyway.  They fester first, making all his gestures into something raging.  Every word and every motion forward is a fight against the grain as they play at domesticity._

_The end of that month comes to frustrated blows with Sam.  And when the landlady threatens to call the cops, well-pocketed cash comes in handy to silence her._

_Still, the newspapers don’t stop, and the cases that they’re filled with, itch like something long gone untreated._

_Month three and four are a confessed blur, going through the motions until Dean felt seasick enough to abandon ship and take the Impala for a joyride.  He is reckless and desperate enough to hunt a vamp nest on his own, but two weeks of avoiding phone calls from his brother with the baby screaming through the earpiece has him returning with shame following overhead like a cloud as he limped across the threshold of a new apartment._

_He doesn’t tell Sam about the vamp bites on his shoulder and ankles, how he’d taken the few days of the last week to recover because he’d almost killed himself.  He just comes back to silence, greeted with silence._

_Sam doesn’t tell him about getting fired from his job while there’d been nobody to watch Cas on his work shift.  Sam doesn’t tell him how he couldn’t make that month’s rent because of that last missing paycheck, or how he’d spent the last few days of the week packing and unpacking for a new place on three days notice._

_These are the things they don’t say._

_Cas watches his return quietly and warily, with wide knowing eyes._

_Admittedly, this is the sight that Dean’s been avoiding._

_Cas is five months now, already bigger by the time Dean comes trudging back.  His silence is the most telling as he plays on the blanket on the floor with his toys in his mouth, sometimes peeking up as Dean watches him right back from the couch._

_He doesn’t coo, or garble noise, or any of the other quantifiable noises babies his age should make.  Daycare couldn’t handle his tantrums, the hours he still cries without warning, and they raise too many questions about medical evaluations._

_Dean had hoped it was a phase—too much overload for the little guy—too much overload for anybody really._

_Sam has broached the topic of specialists for Cas, and Dean has given him the universal signal to back off it.  Still, Dean’s given a cursory glance at the pages Sam’s got saved on his laptop.  He knows specialists would do fuck-all for Cas.  He wonders how the questionnaire they’d fill out would go._

_Mother’s name:  none._

_Father’s name:  God._

_Date of birth:  You mean Jimmy Novak’s, or Cas’?  Do resurrections count?_

_History of Mental Illness in the family:  Oh, yeah.  His whole family is a bunch of dicks hell-bent on human genocide.  Sadists.  Did we mention Lucifer’s his brother?_

_Dean thinks all this and more in his sprawl on the couch.  He watches his brother’s brazen motion to and from the bedroom.  New uniform shirt pressed neatly on his large shoulders; Sam gets ready for his new job at a delivery service._

_“Managed to bullshit your boss with a story about you being sick on your ass for the past few weeks,” Sam mutters as he grabs his keys, “With the way you look right now, I think he’ll buy it.  Be back in eight hours—don’t fucking leave again.”  When he thinks Dean’s not looking, his eyes go sad just before the door closes._

_Dean stays on that couch for days afterward, nursing.  There’s a bottle of milk, and next to that, a bottle of beer.  And Dean watches Cas watching him, and when he doesn’t, he goes to work._

_By month six, Dean has learned to switch the morning paper for a bottle of the good stuff, just to stop the fights with his brother._

_It’s another habit, of course.  Another method of avoidance, or assuaging the guilt or some other dime store therapy bullshit Sam spouts on the days that are particularly bad._

_They’re not always bad.  He still thinks of Cas as a miracle of sorts.  He’s six and half months when he starts to crawl toward Dean; limbs shaking as he had inched his way across the carpet.  By the end of that first successful day, Dean has several cameras full of undeveloped film.  He waits for his brother’s shift to end, like a kid eager to open his Christmas gifts._

_Sam’s face at the end of it is priceless enough._

_And Dean recognizes these moments as gifts; Cas’ discovery of things, of flavors and scents, and his expressions when they go joyful with the simple things like watching the birds take flight in the park, or how the seasons mark the world in warm colors.  He crinkles dried leaves in his little fingers, and simply marvels at everything.  New and human, as he is—a marvel himself._

_Dean holds these things fiercely when everything goes sour.  Because Dean can’t help but remember how his friend could break the threshold of time with a thought as he wakes for those late night feedings.  And when Cas learns to walk around ten months into his “new” life, Dean remembers how he once could fly._

_Cas is a year old now.  According to the local children’s clinic, he’s growing steadily.  He sits on his own, has learned to shift his little arms and legs, walking only who-knows-where, hands trying to grab and hold things—baby proofing their apartment is an ever-evolving affair against Cas’ developing cleverness._

_In the times that Cas manages to stand, Dean’s heart turns mercurial, half-cheering him on, half-dreading the ways he’ll get himself in trouble or hurt._

_He’s smart, too smart for a one-year-old.  He’s managed to escape several hallway gates, and open the lower cupboards despite the plastic swivel lock—a typical hindrance to one-year-olds._

_There’s no telling how much he knows, about himself, about the past, about Sam and Dean.  All they know is the way he struggles, the way he reaches for them, the way his face goes stoic and still as he contemplates them both in turn like miraculous oddities._

_But that’s always been Cas._

_The only thing Dean fears is the silence._

_At one, Cas makes no attempt to talk.  He just goes quiet, somber eyes still wide and blue and staring, following them or sometimes staring at nothing—nothing at all._

_Somehow that’s just as worse as the noise.  There’s a sense of knowing in the silence, something building in the back of Cas’ eyes when he stares too long in a singular place, be at them or nowhere._

_Right now, he’s drawing._

_Dean finds him with the crayons they’d locked away.  He shrugs his shoulders and hands him blank paper, better than letting him get to the walls.  They’re stocked up anyway—perks that come with his job stacking and un-stacking boxes for the office supply store Dean works._

_Cas is serious, utterly engrossed in his coffee table project.  Dean feels amusement, wondering at the air of concentration that surrounds his…friend.  He kneels at Cas-level watches what he’s scrawling down.  A curl of black here, a scribble of red there.  Little fingers press down the paper, but Cas can’t really stop the slide it makes across the polished wood.  His fingers are chubby, baby-clumsy as he holds the crayon, trying to keep it all steady as he makes different marks.  His movements are sloppy, fine motor skills still in development._

_He’s dressed in a light blue tee with the picture of a sock monkey on his tummy.  Matching socks hide his little feet.  He shifts his weight unhappily on them._

_Dean had gone through aisles and aisles of clothes before he found the right thing, something that might fit him right—not in the sense of size.  Physically speaking, Cas is perfectly average for his age._

_He’d gone nitpicking everything Sam had brought him, thinking: Nope, that doesn’t look like something Cas would wear.  It’s hard looking at the colors and styles the children’s department had to offer, something that’s not too silly, or mocking all that Cas had been._

_Cas had been into monkey’s right?  Before._

_Dean’s starting to suspect he hates the outfit._

_On his knees eye level with Cas, Dean sees that lower lip quivering with a breath of complete agitation, round cheeks puffing out on it.  Those little hands try again, as Cas tilts himself bodily toward his work, trying to get the right angle.  A few squirmy gestures as the crayon drags across the paper in jerky lines, and Cas stares down, little brow scowling as severe as he’d ever been.  Dean smiles at the mini smite-face.  Until those little hands catch the edges of the paper, and those little unhappy huffs of breath deepen.  Less than a minute transpires.  Cas crumples the paper, with uncoordinated hands._

_“Hey, that was pretty good—“  Dean slides his arm through the gap in those childish arms. Dean’s been saving every picture, every finger painting.  “No need to Hulk-out on it…”  He stops speaking at the tearing noises Cas makes._

_No salvaging it now._

_A neat little row of pearling teeth peek with a grimace of his small, lower jaw.  Cas makes a whine of distress.  There’s something in his eyes, something imploring and desperate as he finally turns to Dean._

_“Come on, buddy…” Dean wraps his arms around him, kneeling as he palms the little head covered in dark hair, “don’t start that…”_

_A year, and theses tantrums still happen at least once a day._

_Little fingers dig in and scratch his forearms as Cas clutches him back.  It stings but Dean bears it, not quite stoicism in the breath that quivers out from his own lips._

_The rolling metal thing pounding his gut drops lower.  It’s raw guilt hardened over with feeling useless, playing babysitter to this…always crying, never settled in his own skin—the unhappiest kid in the world._

_The image of driving in his car snaps into his head; the white-hot desire to uproot and hunt something down and make it die bloody.  Instead, he’s trapped._

_“What…?” Dean’s stomach could boil gunmetal under that stare.  “I don’t know what you want unless you tell me!”_

_Cas goes quiet, holding a breath._

_They’re at the cusp of some revelation, some knowledge.  Dean can hear it the seconds of space between them.  They stare, like always, between the bars of their skin.  For a moment, the image of a hardened jawline, and stubble with the frown of ages, superimposes over the smaller, baby face before him.  Dean thinks, with a strange sense of conviction: Talk to me, Cas.  I know you’re in there._

_Say something.  Come on—say something!_

_That small face crumples before him, tears rolling down his cheeks with finality.  Any depth that might have suggested the foundation of something infinite and divine-willed drifts away.  A baby cries, nothing more._

_Faces inches away, Dean cups that small cheek.  Cas’ mind goes somewhere he can’t understand or follow._

_“I don’t know what to do,” it might be a prayer since he’s on his knees speaking to Cas asking him for one more miracle,  “you need to tell me…and I’ll do it.  Whatever it is, I’ll do it…you just need to get better, ok?  Because I need you.”_

_Cas has never answered a prayer for himself.  Dean knows this because he’s asked before._

_Dean sits for half an hour with a baby in his arms, and in that time Cas goes quiet in small bursts but that’s only because he’s exhausting himself, going dry of tears.  His hands and legs jerking uselessly, like he wants the strength in them to escape._

_But he can’t get away.  He’s trapped.  Like Sam is trapped.  And Dean, stuck in a limbo, watching Cas like a time bomb, aches for purpose._

_Is it helping?  Is him being here helping Cas at all?  A year has come and gone in maddening inaction.  This isn’t normalcy, not even close._

_Dean stands, and heads for the dinette and the liquor cabinet near the kitchen.  He returns only to sit Cas down in the play-pen in the living room.  He goes back to sitting at the doorframe of the bedroom staring into the living room, half in half out, and opens his mouth to breathe and drink._

_And when the noise dies off abruptly without warning, like it usually does, Dean is finally too wasted to care._

“Inias!”

Dean screams himself to a searing rasp, the channel of his throat feeling like he’d swallowed sandpaper or gravel.  The skin of his face and neck, and all other parts exposed to the air, biting back with its breath stealing cold, feels about the same.  Dean has overcome the sensation for a good long while, but with night breaking out in earnest, he won’t stand it.       

 

The wind is picking up, the stars go bright and watchful overhead, and Dean mistakes their light for what is quiet snowfall freckling the night sky.  He grunts and heads for the house before the clear path back disappears completely.

 

Sam startles with the clap of the door shutting on Dean’s sudden entrance downstairs.  His eyes flash to Cas for any signs of alarm, but the only distress displayed is the same jerky-limbed battle the boy is having within himself.

 

Settling the sheets under his hand for the umpteenth time, Sam enters the twilight of his guardianship with a weary heart.

 

Dean is there to join him, his shadow darker in the doorjamb where he stands looking in.  They don’t greet or speak the obvious condolences of both their failed vigils.  They simply pass the grief between them, trading the burden of the other without realizing the same weight of it.  Their gestures are fruitless but ultimately part of their makeup.

 

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Dean’s voice is haggard without the open space of nothing to echo it back.  In this small room, the pain of it is more than obvious.  Sam frowns without comment.

 

Instead, Sam clasps the small hand embedded in his palm from hours.  He creaks as bad as the floor and chair when he finally decides to rise.  Dean winces, but also without comment.  Sam shifts aside for his brother to pass through and take up his position, even down to the way he’d held Cas’ hand.

 

Dean hasn’t bothered to remove the boots; they slush quietly to a puddle on the floor.  He has no thought to care, and no care to remember.  He cradles his son with his eyes and doesn’t let go.  His only distraction is the flurry of movement building along the boy’s brow, and finally the soft sound that escapes his small open mouth.

 

“… _I’m…s-sorry…”_

This is the sound that crumples him.  The steel frame determination that kept his shoulders straight and stubborn as he made his summons outside bends almost to breaking.  His eyes burn on the wound in his heart, hours of dry wind exposure don’t compare.  Tears break free and he weeps shamefully and fearfully at the bedside.

 

“Don’t…please,” there’s no distance as Dean leans over, his lips pressing dry kisses on a small forehead, “don’t say that, Cas…it’s my fault remember. ”  The tears slide and burn tracks down his wind burned cheeks.  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Cas.  _I’m_ so sorry…”

 

_It’s not the first time._

_Hell, it’s not the second time either._

_That gone-sour taste that makes his tongue curl in his mouth is proof enough of the whisky bath he took._

 

_He’s aware of his body in a secondary way, gathering second-hand information through post-inebriation senses.  Clue one: he’s belly down.  Clue two…_

_It’s silent._

_Awe-inducing, knee-shaking silence._

_There’s a pang in his chest, even as basks in it gratefully._

_The strange flip-side to the hours spent trying to get Cas to this state, is the complete lack of noise he makes afterward._

_He raises his head, cheek sore from the strange stamp of leather left behind on his face. That’s what he gets for sleeping in the…_

_He takes a moment to open one bleak eye, distracted by the ache fisting itself between his ears and punching into the bridge of his nose.  His right arm dangles off the side of black leather.   His hand rests a foot or two below his body._

_He’s in the Impala, half sprawled in the backseat._

_He teeters, bracing his weight against the hand in the foot well.  He shoots upright, confused in the dark as nighttime sky peeks through the windows._

_Thankfully, she’s still in the parking lot.  At least he wasn’t stupid enough to go driving off._

_He ignores the protest of his brain, jarring inside his skull as he finds the door handle and pulls it screeching open._

_He finds Sam leaning just outside, face burning from the cold he’s stayed too long in, one hand dug into a pocket, right knee jutted out.  Like any good lawyer, Sam has probably prepared his opening argument in the time it takes Dean to step from the car’s threshold.  He knows a battle stance when he sees one._

_“You just **left** him?!” Sam doesn’t give him a chance to take the first hit._

_Dean slides his gaze, head tilting badly as he gets used to gravity.  Or shame.  His tongue burns with worry, the first question escapes the moment Sam gives pause._

_“Is he okay?” the words are shuttered and quiet.  They stand on breaking splints in the night air, and Sam barrels through them with branding anger._

_“I know you can be a dumbass about a lot of things, ok.  Of being careful enough—taking it easy on yourself, on me, on-on Cas.  I know you need to go off to blow off some steam—I get it, Dean.  I **know**_ _every god-awful thing you’ve got dragging behind you because it’s behind me too.  And I know the uglier it is, you have the emotional maturity of a gnat when it comes to dealing with it…” by this point he’s pacing, rankled fingers threading through his long hair and pinning it behind his ears,  “But how could you— **how** do you just get shit wasted and leave him?!!”_

_Sam—all six plus feet of him—stops toe-to-toe in front of his brother.  Dean has seen him in all states of anger.  He has been the cause of it in more than one occasion.  The look turned in his direction, is relatively new._

_Sam has only stared down the bottom-feeders of what they hunt like this.  For all Dean’s stunts in the past, he’s never quite earned this look until this last year._

_Dean doesn’t say a word.  He tilts his head back, slumping against the Impala, the disrupted acids of his stomach churning as he lays all of his guilty weight against metal.  The move is fortifying him, not building him.  He puts a cap on his indignation, done for the night._

_“Just needed some…air,” he grunts and sways a little in place, backside rocking the car a bit._

_“Oh, you just needed some air?” Sam gesticulates to space or locked-down Heaven or the God that doesn’t give a crap._

_“Sam…” it’s got the warning notes Sam used to look for when there was a distance of you-don’t-mess-with-older-brother between them.  It means crap now, or has ever since Sam turned into a momma bear._

_“He depends on us now, Dean!” Sam points at the apartment and the curious kid within, “on **us**_ _and you can’t just bail anytime you want. It doesn’t work like that.”  He turns, gravity and responsibility and love pulling him back to their apartment.  He still has his work clothes on, heavy boots, sweat-stained shirt from packing and lifting at the warehouse._

_“Sam…I-I..” and this note stops Sam in his tracks, because—Dean will admit—it’s inches away from breaking, “I just **couldn’t**_ … _I just couldn’t take it any more.  I came out here to—fuck, I don’t know—ask for help.  I just…I just couldn’t stay there.”_

_Sam looks over his shoulder, something depreciating in his gaze, but he doesn’t turn all around to face his brother._

_“You know, it’s taking a lot out of me too, sticking with this.  Staying put.” He sounds like its costs him, every ounce of fire burning out as he’s exposed to suburban life, like Dean chaffing under restraint.  “You don’t think I want to be out there, taking answers out with blood, even if they’re not there?  You don’t think I want to pack up and leave every time I hear him cry?  You’re not the only one who’s afraid, Dean.  You’re not the only one who misses their best friend and wishes he’d come back with answers.”_

_Dean sees the wound Sam has carried silently in deference to his brother’s loss.  His shoulders slump as he heads for the door with urgent footsteps.  Sam doesn’t stay away from Cas for very long, if he can help it._

_Dean follows with a harsh slam to the Impala’s door.  He follows, and picks up the trail of the argument that’s going to meet him as soon as he heads back to their rotten apple pie of a life._

_He closes the mesh gate before the front door, the metal grate sealing him into this life as surely as a cage.  The impala lies under a streetlamp, glistening free and unhampered_

_He hears his brother in the bedroom, cooing and shushing.  There’s no more noise, and time has turned unaccountable since he left Cas by himself.  The taste of that thought is as bitter as the after-flavor of sleep-logged spit and alcohol in his mouth._

_“Cas…?”  Sam shifts from the bedroom door back to the living room.  He’s running his hands through his hair as Dean plants himself more firmly in reality with the worry in his brother’s voice.  “Cas!”_

_“Don’t tell me you lost him…”_

_“Shut-up,” Sam points an accusing finger, and slips back the way he came; his voice hollering, “Cas!”_

_That’s all the permission Dean needs to freak-the-fuck-out.  He’s following his brother, tacking Cas’ name as he goes to his knees and searches under the bed.  The closet._

_“Fuck, Sam—you saw him when you came out to get me, right?”_

_“He was sitting on the couch when I got home,” Sam’s voice comes bouncing off the other end of the room.  “I left him in his play pen.”_

_Shit!_

_“He’s figured out how to jimmy it open, Sam I left him in there—” he doesn’t say when he got irresponsibly drunk.  He’s rushing to the living room, screaming out Cas’ name.  “Has the door been open this whole time…?”_

_Nothing compares to the fear slipping through his being now.  What comes close is watching Sam dying in front of him.  That finality and raw upending grief slamming into him as his mind goes screaming…_

_“Cas…!” He’s out the door screaming into the parking lot like a madman, earning the stares allocated to madmen.  He doesn’t give a fuck for the neighbors, or for Sam who’s practically doing the same beside him as they run into the parking lot._

_Something must’ve taken him…_

_Something must’ve…_

_He’s crying and breathing at the same time.  His heart is rupturing on a guilty beat, because it’s all on him.  It was his job….he had one job…_

_He’s leaning over his legs, red fury pumping out, threatening to fold his drunk ass to the ground as he heads back to the front door, retracing his steps, looking for clues…anything._

_He’s ducked down on the ground searching for the place he threw his keys.  What is he thinking…?  A one-year-old couldn’t have gotten far…unless he was taken by some evil sonovabitch…damnit, Dean…you had one job…just one—_

_There are little fingers touching his arm, as he’s kneeling, his face turned under the couch.  His entire body shudders then locks down as he breathes all the horrors running through him out._

_He looks up into wide baby blue eyes, staring at him with a hint of recoiling fear.  Nothing has prepared him for the look on that small round face.  The tears are still there, looks like Cas hadn’t stopped after all.  He’s actually trying to keep himself silent, holding the hand that’s not wrapped at Dean’s shoulder against his little mouth.  Heartbreaking sounds slipping through those little fingers anyway._

_“Where were you, huh?”  Dean just grabs him, sweeps him up into his arms, tucking that little face against his shoulder and holding on for dear life.  “Don’t ever.  Ever.  Do that to me again, Cas…”  he calls over his shoulder to Sam.  He hears his brother’s footsteps like a calling card.  He leans back to look into those startled little eyes.  “I was **so**_ _worried—I thought…”_

_“Dean…?”_

_“…thought I lost you—don’t know what I would’ve done, Cas—”_

_“Dean…!”_

_“What, Sam?!”_

_He turns, watches his brother’s face.  Gauging how it looks both puzzled and astonished, he turns to see just what’s so puzzling and astoni—_

_—Shit._

_The apartment’s basically one open space, the living room looks into the kitchen, and the kitchen…well, that’s something._

_Dean is slow to stand, with Cas’ soft little weight in his arms.  He walks along that open floor plan; counter space on the left with its sink, the fridge tucked into the corner beyond that, the ancient oven, and beside that the pantry door which is now open.  There’s space enough on the bottom, space enough to duck and hide.  Sure enough that’s where Cas has been, but that doesn’t gather his throat in a strangling necktie all of a sudden.  On the floor there are crayons—the one’s Dean had let him use on the coffee table.  But what’s on the inside of the door is steadily becoming the most important detail in their lives._

_There’s a sigil drawn on it._

_Not perfect, done in that child-scrawl that makes it hard to identify for someone who hadn’t been in their line of work. It must’ve taken him a long time, just to get that little bit of warding done._

_“Sh-sh-ar-ee...”_

_It’s his first attempt.  His first set of identifiable double consonant and vowel sounds.  He’s looking at Dean, everything in him is suddenly screaming out meaning as he weeps with his big rolling tears and fists the lapels of Dean’s shirt._

_“Sss-arr-ee…”_

**_Sorry_ ** _._

_It’s his first word.  An apology._

_Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada’ or anything children his age or younger are saying already._

_Sam looks at him like they’ve dropped it all.  Intelligent guy that he is, he’s already figured out how much worse their lives have gone.  It takes some time for Dean.  The shock is wearing out and now the heart beats on track for Shitsville population Winchester._

_Sorry.  It’s not the first thing children say.  You learn the word later, as you grow older and make mistakes.  Mistakes are for bigger things, for older people.  And the way that Cas says it, ages him in Dean’s arms—it ages him terribly._

_And Dean knows, with that slow kind of horror that starts filling in all the vacant spaces in the year that has passed them by.  All those missing pieces, have filled in suddenly.  Every time Cas has looked up at them, something burning and responsible in his gaze despite the cool blue of his eyes.  Every time he has cried—or has lost himself…all of it because he still remembered._

_And Dean starts to imagine it.  A year trapped inside a body that’s too small, too weak to care for itself.  Arms and legs all but useless, unable to speak, unable to write words, unable to walk, or do anything else but cry and scream at the two idiots who have complete charge over you._

_And then one day your body starts to catch up to your mind, and you practice and practice the right thing to say and it’s—it’s…_

**_Sorry_ **

Pillow and blanket in hand, Sam enters to this, a moment divided from him.  Its contents are shadows, and the depths are insurmountable.  Sam feels his brother’s grief in the atmosphere, a layer of ash dying over his skin. 

 

Dean takes that small boy in his arms and tucks his face into his neck, like he has so many times before, still murmuring against his son’s cheek, wetting both their faces with the mist of his breath and the fall of tears.  Sam wants to fall where he stands, let the universe take him.  

 

They can’t come back from this.

**Author's Note:**

> ...depicted in a child. kid!Cas fic


End file.
